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#ship; deadly trinity
anonymouscheeses · 8 days
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My messy ass shipping list updated 💜
Separate because I know FOR REALL YALL CANT SEE THAT SHIT CUZ I CANT EITHER 😭😭
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And blank if you want to use
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Updated because I keep finding new ships everyday, a wide range was made so i was like y not, and because my opinions have changed just a bit. Just a weee bit
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goodwhump-temp · 1 year
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Rodney McKay Whump - SG: Atlantis
1x03 Hide and Seek - First human trial (DNA manipulated), given a shot, pushed off a balcony, shot (in the leg/off-screen), "punched," verbally bullied, panicking, sacrifices himself, unconscious, sore 1x06 Childhoods End - Annoyed by children, held at arrow-point, exhausted 1x08 Underground - Captured & threatened by Bashirs best friend 1x09 Home - Stranded on earth, captured, unconscious, 1x10 The Storm - Held captive by the Genii, threatened, arm squeezed 1x11 The Eye - Hostage, thoroughly pissed 1x13 Hot Zone - In danger the whole episode, attacked by a vision ghost (schizophrenic), coping (emotional) 1x14 Sanctuary - argument with sheppard, didn't sleep, only person not in love with the fancy evil "priestess" 1x19 The Siege - Falls from a great height, "permanent back damage," offended, emotional (not about himself)
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2x01 The Siege pt. 3 - Almost killed, forced to fight the wraith 2x02 The Intruder - Attacked by coolidge leak, scared by transport beam (is weird), sickened by Sheppards flying, attacked by wraith virus controlled ship 2x03 Runner - Captured/threatened by Ford, caught in a trap upside-down 2x04 Duet - Trapped inside Wraith dart, collapses, unconscious, hospitalized, another consciousness in his body; ego destroyer, angry, sore, fighting for body control, seizure, emotional, kisses Beckett, collapses 2x05 Condemned - shot down, chipped a tooth (?), captured, threatened 2x06 Trinity - Obsessive, makes Sheppard worry/pity, emotional 2x08 Conversion - Worried about Sheppard 2x10 Lost Boys - Kidnapped, threatened 2x11 The Hive - takes dose of wraith enzyme, passes out, goes through insane withdrawal, hospitalized, unconscious 2x14 Grace Under Pressure - Serious head injury, trapped hundreds of feet under water, hallucinating sam, cold and wet 2x17 Coup D'etat - Genii trap, collapses, captured
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3x04 Sateda - Takes an arrow to the butt, immense pain, cared for 3x07 Common Ground - Scared by a mouse 3x08 McKay and Mrs. Miller - Alternate reality Rodney, emotional rollercoaster 3x09 Phantoms - Shot in the chest 3x12 Echoes - Worsening headache, nose bleed, passes out, deaf 3x14 Tao of Rodney - Hit by energy pulse (gene mutation), nervous, acting increasingly strange, insomnia, emotional, overstimulated headache, passes out, hospitalized, flatlines 3x16 The Ark - Almost sucked out into space 3x20 First Strike - Caught in explosion, visible face injury
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4x02 Lifeline - Captured 4x03 Reunion - Attacked by wraith, alone, betrayed, shot unconscious, captured 4x04 Doppleganger - Faces greatest fear, flatlines/cardiac arrest, beaten up 4x06 Tabula Rasa - Deadly disease/lose memory, shot unconscious, running/hiding from militia 4x08 The Seer - sees vision of them getting captured 4x09 Millers Crossing - he and his sister kidnapped, threatened, great bonding with Sheppard 4x10 This Mortal Coil - Captured 4x12 Spoils of War - shot unconscious, captured, almost tortured 4x13 Quarantine - Panicking, ultimate pessimist --> causes his own heartbreak (how NOT to get a girl), L rizz 4x14 Harmony - Forced to guard a child, held at gunpoint 4x16 Trio - Falls, trapped in a cavern, in danger & panicks the whole episode 4x20 The Last Man - Old, depressing backstory, technically dead
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5x01 Search and Rescue - Some face scratches, bleeding, panicks 5x02 The Seed - Panicking x100 5x03 Broken Ties - Captured 5x04 Daedalus Variations - Shot in the arm (worse than it sounds) 5x06 the shrine - Intense memory loss, serious pneumonia, coma, hospitalized, panicking/insanely emotional help infected, intense headache, surgery 5x08 The Queen - Captured 5x09 Tracker - Bonding with Ronon, chased and punched by a wraith, manhandled, sore, shot at 5x10 First Contact - Captured, sore 5x12 Outsiders - Captured 5x13 Inquisition - Knocked unconscious 5x16 Brain Storm - Freezing
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gay-jewish-bucky · 11 months
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Hey.
Sorry if I’m interrupting anything.
I’m just curious.
Your blog description has “MCU hater” in it?
Why? I mean where did that come from? I’m just curious.
I’m not the biggest fan of it myself, but I’m more indifferent towards it than anything else.
Again I’m just curious. Nothing more.
*yeah it says a lot when the film I’m most looking forward to this year is Oppenheimer! I like to pretend it’s a film adaptation of the Trinity Desk Project*
not it all!
that's a very long explanation, all the higher ups and creatives say awful things all the time (espec in regards to bucky), they treat male trauma like a fucking joke and treat women like sex objects, it took them over a fucking decade to introduce characters of colour in main roles, they admit they don't hire people who care about the source material and called it a 'red flag', they hate the characters who aren't tony, they don't give a shit about telling good stories, they are dead set on ruining everyone people loved about steve bc they're mad about a gay ship (the ending, the way they forced in their nasty self-insert fantasy about the uso girls into steve's "canon"), they hate fans and critics who don't praise every single thing they do, the only movies that have had any heart or creative intent since twenty-fourteen are the black panther movies bc ryan coogler is the only left in it for more than just money, they treat their actors abysmally to avoid "spoilers" getting out, they underpay and overwork everyone who isn't a big name, they consistently white-wash and straight-wash and goy-wash countless characters who belong to marginalized identities and this extends to the comics, they admit they dont care about telling superhero stories, their fans will destory people's lives for being critical, they think an abusive white nazi is a better captain america than steve rogers or sam wilson bc #girlboss (actively supporting white feminism which is a facet of white supremacy), they don't care about hyping sam up as captain america at all, they think perpetrators of genocide are more understandable than their victims, they pump out shitty product after shitty product to maximize profit, they are known for forcing actors to stay closeted (kristen stuart turned down a role so she would have the freedom to come out), the fandom is horrifically antisemitic despite the comics being created by jewish men during the holocaust, they butchered moon knight's judaism, they do not properly compensate the people who created the characters they are making millions off of, they're largely responsible for the depoliticization of the superhero genre...i can keep going.
i'm not looking forward to a single project, if anything im bracing for the antisemitic violence that will come from cap 4's plot and title playing into a viscous and deadly antisemitic conspiracy which is also in the movie they introduce a jewish hero.
@w1ll0wtr33
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croftborn-a · 1 year
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CROFT'S GAMBIT, an alternate canon trinity spy verse ... what the devil can't do ‚ he sends a woman to.
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ENCRYPTION CODE: OBEDIAH
ARRIVAL AT THE ISLAND COLLOQIALLY KNOWN AS ' YAMATAI ' AT 0300. PRIMARY SEARCH: - ship graveyard off the northern coast of the island, recent ship-wreck of the endurance has been found. the ship looks to have been engulfed by flames after the crash, alex weiz body has been identified, none of the trinity intel he breached has been recovered. no sign of himiko's remains. - a makeshift shelter has been located on the beach, the fire still hot. possible survivors in the area. - a river leading inland has been located. - we were ordered to increase search perimeter to find locate conrad roth and lara croft.
REPORT: 0454 - the island is infested with predatory wildlife and signs of human life. recon team delta recovered an altar with possible human remains mounted. himiko's remains found... they've been sabotaged. recovery ongoing. some weird shit's been going on in this island, sir. request to retreat, roth and croft probably didn't survive.
REPORT: 0511 - [static, gunshots] sir! it's croft! she survived, request to fire back, i - sir, yes sir, we'll bring her back alive.
REPORT: 0523 - we lost delta team, she nearly took out the entire recon unit. she wasn't fast enough though, once we got close enough we were able to subdue her. she's ... i don't know how she survived this island for over two weeks sir. we found the rest of the endurance crew, most were executed, others shot point blank. there were four marked graves on land, otherwise croft seems to be the only surviving member of the crew. waiting on airlift to base freighter. recovery team on the ground now.
ENCRYPTION CODE: CARDINALUS NATUS
TWO MONTHS AFTER CROFT RECOVERY FROM YAMATAI - you were right, sir. recruiting croft to the cause was easier than i thought. she had very little convictions beyond human grief. she needed purpose, and trinity gave her that. it will be a matter of time before she leads us to the divine source. your faith in me will not be wasted, cardinal. i will bring god's will as it is intended.
this is an alternate universe where trinity tracks down alex weisz, the hacktivist who breached their database to the endurance shipwreck on yamatai. upon learning that lara croft and conrad roth were on the ship's manifest, orders from the trinity higher ups demand that the island be searched for survivors, after ana makes her case that lara is the only person who could possibly help locate the lost research of richard croft and uncover the secrets of the divine source.
sure enough, lara is recovered by trinity's field team, weeks after the sun queen's cult scheme was foiled. lara's efforts were grandiose, but not enough. she thought sam survived the ritual, but her friend lay cold as ice in her arms. jonah and reyes were not lucky either, found by the cult and murdered, their only escape sabotaged. lara buried her dead and reaped revenge on the rest of the cultists, spend her days hunting down every last one of them before her priorities shift elsewhere; to somehow survive this island, smoking signals and daring to fix the riverboat to venture into tumultuous waters to possibly find rescue. rescue eventually comes in the form of trinity mercenaries who airlift the deadly croft to safety and she's slowly inundated, in the wake of massive trauma, and brought into the folds of trinity, trapped into perfectly weaved lies about how her father worked with trinity, and how she's bound by duty and legacy to help them.
so lara claims back the croft name and works to bring it back to its former glory. news paper articles read, the prodigal daughter returns: croft name restored! she's no longer the croft who rejects the legacy but the one who lets it become everything she's known for, so that her clandestine ranks in trinity's fold is covered up perfectly. she's refined into a killing machine and handed a purpose and it becomes everything she believes. little does lara know she now works for the very same organization that killed her father and dressed up their greed in altruistic goals. trinity doesn't know that if lara ever finds out the truth, the weapon they made out of her and codenamed lilith, they will sooner find out - betrayal sharpens blades better than purpose.
lara's personality is shaped into a darker, more ruthless version of herself and her obsessive qualities are fed into constantly so that she loses sight of anything beyond the mission. she's publicly shameless and arrogant about her wealth and knowledge, even as she performs displays of charity and other expectations of her social class. she makes sure no one ever suspects her true identity and the work she does for trinity, though she's warped by their ideology so much that she's also claiming and keeping secrets to herself, believing the glory is owed to the croft name and the croft name alone. so in a sense, she's a double agent, mostly for herself. and thinks she's using trinity's resources while they believes they're using her. just a recipe for disaster really.
affiliations: @ofthclight's rourke, of course, @gunbash, @warbyrds and anyone who wants to with a severely misguided lara.
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onewomanonecountry · 2 years
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A Day of Learning
Yesterday was a wonderful and fulfilling day of learning about Irish culture. We learned about the Irish famine in the mid-1800s and the massive impact it had on Ireland. Also, we ventured over to Trinity College to see the Book of Kells and the Long Room. Our adventures were enriched with Irish history, so stay tuned for more details below!
Jeanie Johnston
Our first adventure was at the replica of the historical Jeanie Johnson ship used to bring Irish emigrants to America during the famine. However, this ship was not like the others, the Jeanie Johnston crew members did not care about making a massive profit from starving and poor people. They cared about helping those in need and keeping people alive. In fact, the ship's record of losing people was zero despite its sinking. The reason the ship had zero losses was that the crew took care of the passengers by having a doctor on board, allowing time to walk on the top deck, and making sure living conditions were sanitary. Moreover, we learned how badly the famine hurt Ireland's population with the death toll at a million by the end. Also, over a million Irish people emigrated from Ireland to America during this time, thus separating families. Ireland's population today is around six million, however, had the famine not occurred the population would have been estimated to eighteen million. The famine had a deadly toll on Ireland and has still affects them now.
Trinity College
Our second stop was at the beautiful Trinity College in Dublin to see the Book of Kells and the Long Room. The outside of Trinity College was something out of a movie with beautiful stone buildings and massive statues. The sun was bright and warm that day, therefore my favorite part of the day was laying in the park area at the college! The Book of Kells was also wonderful to visit but very brief. I did know about the Book of Kells until going on the tour and I must say it is fascinating. The book is a masterpiece of art from the medieval century that describes the four Gospels and what I would give to see it all in person! Our final stop a the college was the Long Room Libary and its name perfectly describes it. The room was filled with hundreds of books and statues of significant people were lined along the wall. While they were all men, there was a section in the middle of the room that described the female students and their hardships. There was even a petition to stop women from attending the college to "keep men safe." However, the women prevailed and now have a section of the room to them.
Yesterday was enriched not only with beauty but also the culture and history of Dublin. There is still so much to learn about Ireland and I cannot wait to share more about it!
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gwydionmisha · 5 months
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queenofbaws · 3 years
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I'm here for asking my dose of Conrad and Fliss, please!!
Now to be fair, there were a lot of other things going on that night (pirates waving guns in their faces for one, getting half his ear sliced off for another, batty old broads chasing him through a ghost ship rounding out that unholy trinity), but that didn’t keep him from feeling like an absolute idiot when he realized what she was doing.
“Have you...hey, hold up,” before she could get too far ahead of him, Conrad took Fliss by the crook of the arm, still trying to piece it all together as he found the right words, “Have you been doing math the whole time we’ve been running?”
“Someone has to keep track of it all,” she answered back, glancing down briefly but making no move to pull away from him.
“Uhhh...okay, keep track of what all, exactly?” he asked, and hoo boy, maybe it was just the whole ‘deadly neurotoxin’ thing, but he was...har-har-har, lost adrift a sea of confusion there.
For the first time since...shit, probably since they’d all sat around eating their (burned-to-a-crisp) dinner on the Duke, Fliss’s expression changed, softening into a smile. “How much I’m going to charge you idiots for putting me through all this.”
six sentence sat(or)sunday!!!
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capricornus-rex · 4 years
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Two Sides of the Coin (5)
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Chapter 5: Not Exactly According to Plan | Jidné Sheedra x Cal Kestis
Summary: Hell-bent on exacting revenge and retrieving the Holocron, the dreaded Darth Vader is now on the hunt for the young Jedi Knight, Cal Kestis. Under the assumption that he still possessed the artifact, while fueled by the intrigue of the boy’s strength and skill with the Force, the dark lord hires the bounty hunter, Jidné Sheedra, to track him down and have him delivered alive. However, the task becomes a trial for young Jidné, as she faces a conflict that tests her beliefs of a scarred past she had hidden for so long.
A/N: And now, the moment y’all been waiting for~~~ :”D
Tagging y’all for this pivotal moment: @berenilion @stellar-trinity @peterwandaparker @calgasm @silver-is-in-too-many-fandoms @queen-destenie @justtinfoley​ @sweeetteaa​ @calsponchoemporium​ @fallenjedii​ @cal-jestis​ @superwarsofthrones​ @ayamenimthiriel​
Also in AO3
Tags: Fem OC, Jidné Sheedra, Force-Sensitive! Fem OC, Bounty Hunter! Fem OC, Jedi! Fem OC
Chapters: 1 – 2 – 3 | Previous: Part 4 | Next: Part 6 | Masterlist
5 of ?
OMBARI, PONDARA SYSTEM, OUTER RIM TERRITORIES
In the lusher parts of Ombari, the Mantis has landed itself near the hilltop town. The most prominent landmark of that settlement was the temple spire that soared to the heavens and nearly pierced the clouds—it was a sanctum of another long-forgotten civilization before this one. Buildings wrapped around the foot of the spire, whether it be homes or business establishments, thieves and honest people alike loitered the streets; a populace of diverse species and humans have housed themselves in this crude location.
If one would take a good look at the surrounding forest, remnants of what ought to be an ancient city—in the same timeline when the temple was at its prime—have been devoured by the flora and the fauna had made it their dominion along with the wilderness. The main road branched into different directions, leading to several other establishments in a fair distance from the city, and even branched through the “safer” part of the woods.
The Mantis kept her distance from the town, docking just behind the city across a river; Cal insisted that they land near the river that divides the city and the woods so that they’re in the median, personally, it’ll just be easy for him to find his way back, whether he goes to the forest or to the city.
The young Jedi also argued that they still remained closer to civilization, knowing that the captain preferred that instead of wild animals that can fold the Mantis in ten seconds. Greez took it to great consideration—much to his hidden chagrin—and landed the ship amongst the high trees that walled the settlement from the unforgiving badlands beyond.
“I should’ve fit some more armaments on this old girl!” Greez stressed, flailing his arms to further express his chagrin.
“I’m sure it’s nothing, Greez,” Cere reassured, her tone is a perfect contrast to the captain’s. “Besides, predators don’t usually show themselves in the open.”
“Yeah, it makes them more vulnerable to the bigger ones,” Cal added.
Greez stammered, uncomforted by the Jedi’s logic, “There’s always a bigger one!”
“Well, I guess there’s no going around for me, not until I’ve convinced Greez enough that everything’s fine in this planet,” Cere sighed as she confided to Cal in the holotable room.
“Ya know I can hear you!” Greez cried from the cockpit.
Cal chuckled before adding, “You guys can take a look around if you like, we’d still end up meeting back here in the Mantis anyway.”
“Fair point, you be careful out there,”
Cal straightened the neckline of his black poncho, BD-1 hopped over and clutched on the belt strap on his back and exited the Mantis. The door unfurled to reveal to him the world in a much larger scale. He felt small, but in a good way; he surveyed the horizon, not knowing which direction to go to first.
The first step onto Ombari’s soil hit different. Cal basked in the warm sunlight and felt a cool, light drizzle kiss his freckled cheeks. Rain and sunshine have mingled together, which was typical in a tropical planet. Meanwhile, in the first few miles into the badlands from the border, Jidné docked the Scarab by the greater water hole that stretched to the more abundant half of Ombari’s mainland.
Her end of the homing beacon continued to glow blue, it beeped a slow, monotonous rhythm indicating that her distance from the target was still far. Panning her head across the desert, she doesn’t spot any silver dorsal fin sticking out like a sore thumb in this reddish-orange wasteland; so, she headed north, towards the denser part of the planet.
The badlands was composed of uphill mesas that overlook the valley of the other side. From Jidné’s vantage point, the city was in sight, as well as the surrounding forest. She fished out her binoculars and scanned the area, searching for the ship among the trees—they were high enough to conceal an Imperial outpost or tower, but that won’t stop her from finding her target.
“Now, where could you be hiding, my little redhead?” Jidné muttered as she peered through her lens left and right.
The sun caught a twinkle of a silver tip shyly peeking out of the treeline. The bounty hunter immediately focused her binoculars in that direction, her thumb turned the knob of the zoom, even with her binoculars she still squinted her eyes in the viewfinder, attempting to see through the thin gaps between the trees.
The homing beacon beeped again, only this time the rhythm of the glow sped up a few beats. She put away her binoculars and went downhill, literally crossing the between the badlands and the mainland. Her boots scraped against the rocky slope, the forest floor carpeted by fallen leaves cushioned her fall; when she erected herself after her landing, she patted the holster on her hip and the felt for her rifle—both weapons are still on her person.
She stalked through the dense greenery, the dimness of the trees’ shade unsettled her little droid on her back.
“Yeah, it’s a little spooky. We’re getting out of here, don’t worry,”
Through the thick foliage, Jidné and ID-3 weren’t alone; amongst the shrubs and treetops where they hide, their sights followed the girl whom they immediately labeled as an intruder of their home. Black claws gripped around the branches, the muscles on their hind legs strained and prepped for a lunge if need be; the ones on the ground slipped and stealthily passed through the plants, concealing themselves from the human’s plain eyes.
“I’m sure it’s nothing, ID, we just need to move fast if we don’t want anything catching up to us,” Jidné reassured, although she was getting uneasy herself. Her hand subtly crawled down to the flap of her holster, carefully unbuttoning the cover.
The animals were surely making their presence known, Jidné had already spotted one of them moving from its hiding place to the next; their low growling grumbled amongst the tree trunks. By instinct, she fished out her lightsaber hilt with a slight tug using the Force and is beginning to prepare herself in a stance.
She focused on the animal that she spotted moving cover to cover, little did she know that this one was a decoy. The true predator was waiting for her on its perch in the treetops. Jidné engaged at the animal when it revealed itself from the bushes: a large cat-like animal with dark, coarse fur, it carried itself with a silent grace with its slender yet muscular limbs, curved claws as deadly as a scimitar, and a long tail used to grapple on its perches.
It bared its teeth as it approached Jidné, asserting its frightful dominance in this jungle. Its back arched and its lips pulled back to show more teeth, agitated at the hiss of the saber’s blade, threatened by the foreign, purple glow that shone in its golden brown eyes.
“Down, kitty,” Jidné hummed.
The decoy still confronted Jidné, affording its companion to descend upon her in the speed of light, its claws fixed on the rifle, assuming that it was a bodily appendage than an actual weapon. Her startled shriek must have alerted every single creature—big or small—within the forest. In the distance, Cal jerked his head to the direction of the human scream, he squinted his eyes as the sound died down and was replaced by the harmonious chirping of birds.
“That doesn’t sound right,” Cal tells BD-1.
Jidné’s true assailant dragged her violently across the forest floor by the rifle on her back; she unbuckled the strap across her body to break free, she succeeded and crawled away—saber still in hand, but her grip was trembling, trying to pull herself together while her life is still flashing before her eyes. The animal thrashed its head wildly left and right while chewing at the weapon in an attempt to eat it; realizing that it was inedible, it flung it far behind its back and focused on the real prey.
Her fingers tensed around her hilt. For every flimsy swing she did to make them back away, they come back at her two steps closer with their yellow, blood-stained fangs in full display. She focused on the one that was closest to her—the decoy—and she grazed its shoulder with her lightsaber. It wailed in pain as the searing heat cooked its skin and fur, Jidné’s attack just made it angrier, all of the hairs on its body pricked up as it arched its back in retaliation.
“Come on!” Jidné screeched tauntingly.
She finally attacked the decoy. The decoy continued to lunge at her, thirsting for revenge after being nicked by her blade. Cal had heard the wail of the animal that Jidné had maimed, it rang loud and clear in his earshot, he knew he was in the right track. He sped through the forest: vaulting over fallen logs and boulders that stood in his path, shouldering his way through the large-leafed bushes and the trees until the humming of a saber was audible.
Cal discovered a girl wielding a purple saber, flailing it at the animals’ faces as she tried to keep herself from their claws’ or fangs’ reach. He watched her for a moment, slashing away at the one already riddled with seared cuts over its body. The wild cat creature lunged at her, in turn, Jidné smoothly evaded it and followed it by piercing the ribcage of the animal with her saber.
A third cat appeared in the place of the one she just killed, angrier and hungrier for meat. As if to exact vengeance on its fallen member, the pack leader charged at her, claws at the ready and reared—its heavy paw slapped away the saber from her hand, buried within the thick foliage of the forest floor.
“NO!!” she screeched, the animal had rendered her empty-handed and vulnerable.
Just when the animals thought that had her in their jaws, the newcomer tried to pounce on her until she seized the leaping animal in mid-air using the Force—Cal witnessed this, awe-stricken at the discovery of a fellow Jedi—her Force-push flung the animal away but quickly shook it off and readied itself back on its four paws.
Cal jumped into the action, instinctively stretching out his hand to inflict Force-slow on the alpha as he joined Jidné. She didn’t take her eyes off the animals, though she stole a glance at her unlikely helper.
Red hair.
Her stomach sank, but everything was happening so quickly that she couldn’t register them all at once in her panicking brain.
Cal was on the offensive and targeted the alpha, riddling its body with orange-and-black searing cuts the same way Jidné did on the one she killed; seeing that she was empty-handed, he quickly twisted the sleeve and separated his lightsabers.
“Here!” he tossed his second saber at Jidné. She caught it, and in a graceful twirl, she’d severed the newcomer cat’s forelegs in a clean, perfectly-timed sweep, killing it in the process.
The alpha backed away, leaned its head back and produced an ear-shattering roar—so loud, in fact, that Jidné had to duck and shield her one ear with her free hand. Little by little, leaner versions of the animal—which ought to be juveniles learning how to hunt—appear out from their hiding spots upon the call of their pack leader, it’s as if they’ve organized this whole ambush for the sake of finding food—which neither Jidné nor Cal do not exactly plan to be.
The juveniles appeared in all sides around them, they spun while literally back-to-back with one another as they surveyed the jungle clearing, counting the reinforcements with their eyes.
Four of the creatures rejoined their leader on the ground, backs arched, and throat rumbling with threatening growls. The death scent of their two fallen members roused up their senses, baring their teeth in anger at the two assailants.
“Something tells me they’re not here for belly rubs,” Cal jested.
That drew a giggle out of Jidné, “No, I don’t think so!”
Both Jidné and Cal brandished their lightsabers at the large, feral cat-like creatures. One immediately lunged at them, buckling its claws at Cal and pounced on him, trying to rip his throat open—Jidné kicked it away from him and left a diagonal gash across its chest, killing it instantly; the scarred alpha attempts to strike back at her, charging at her at a feral speed, she dodge-rolled it and only managed to scratch its thick, aging hide.
“On your left, ginger!”
Cal took on the two new juveniles on his left, he tossed his saber at one while the other jumped on him—he backed away, dodging the jump attack by a hair and skillfully caught the returning lightsaber, he didn’t spare a second in killing the second. That leaves them with the surviving juvenile and the sturdy alpha, who was still standing strong after being nicked repeatedly by both of these humans. It probably had its last straw and paced cautiously at the two.
The remaining juvenile pounced at Jidné—already exhausted at this whole debacle—and dug its sickle-shaped claws onto her shoulders. The borrowed saber was still in her hand, she angled her wrist so the emitter faces the animal, and with a single press of the button, the blade pierced through one side of the animal’s neck to the other. She rolled it away from her body and brought herself on her knees, catching her breath as she stayed close by her unlikely ally.
The alpha had enough of this, of course. Out of mercy, its lunging attack was seized by Cal who Force-pushed it with an intensity that it resorted to run away into hiding. When the whole ordeal was over, Cal turned to the girl.
“You alright?”
He reached out his hand in front of Jidné, she stared at the hand for one second and then turned to the face of the boy who helped her. She denied that her heart skipped a beat. Cal pulled her up to her feet the moment they joined hands.
“Yeah… just a little shaken,” she dusted off the dirt that stuck on her jacket and removed her cowl to do the same. She remembered that she still had his saber and briskly returned it to him. “Thanks for this, by the way.”
He takes his second saber and conjoins it with the other, “Don’t mention it.”
The awkward silence between was filled in by the insects chirping amongst the woods. BD-1 hopped off of Cal’s shoulder to scan the dead animals and skittered briskly back to him.
“So those cats were called Bashiji, huh? I’ll give it a read later,” he whispered to BD-1, and then cleared his throat, recomposing himself in front of the girl. “Name’s Cal. Kestis. By the way.”
He stretched out hand again at her. Her eyes shifted between Cal—beaming a small yet friendly smile at her—and his hand.
“Jidné. Jidné Sheedra.”
She takes his hand and shakes on it. From her touch, the ripple of the Force that has been lightly nudging at Cal ever since he came in to this planet seemed to have amplified. He gave himself the benefit of the doubt and smiled as he exchanged niceties with Jidné.
“Jidné, I’ll remember that,”
A flustered Jidné attempted to subtly pull her hand away from her own target. She awkwardly managed a smile and walked past his shoulder, walking to the foliage where the Bashiji had slapped her saber away. Using the Force, she extended her open hand and the hilt popped out of the pile of leaves where it fell into. She instantly clipped it to her belt the moment it returned to her.
“You’re a Jedi, too?”
Well, shit. Her voice in her mind hissed.
Her stomach sank again just right when it worked its way back up to where it should be. The bridge of her nose crumpled upon realizing that she has no escape from that question, luckily, she had her back turned to Cal when he asked.
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phykios · 4 years
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the marble king, part 2 [part 1] [read on ao3]
Constantinople, 1453
No one had been able to sleep all night, the noise of the cannons was so loud. They echoed even here, on the opposite end of the city, fiery thunderclaps against a cloudless sky, inky, deep sea blue marred only by the dark grey smoke to the North. Percy knew, in theory, that the Gate of Eugenios was the most strategically sound place for a man like him, given his proclivity for and proficiency with naval combat, but here the ancient walls stood proudly, strongly against the water, unassailable and insurmountable. Not all of the city’s defenses had fared as strongly as these had. Had his commander allowed it, he would have repositioned himself elsewhere, where he knew the walls of Theodosius had suffered more devastating blows. 
He was not, in fact, useless on land, as some certain persons had once levied at him as an insult; he could be a great asset to the regiments further inland. But alas, he drew his power from the water, and so by the water he would remain, even if it drove him mad from the waiting.
The darkness of these small hours was oppressive, nearly smothering, and even their torches could not lift it off of their shoulders. From across the bay, Percy could see the lights of the Ottoman camps, flickering constellations outlining the dark, rocky coast, ringing the city in fire and fear. There was no reason to deny it--they were surrounded by their enemies--but if he dwelt on the thought for too long, he would not be able to keep his wits about him.
Now, what may actually drive him mad, he thought bitterly, was the incessant muttering of his fellow soldiers. 
“Theotóke Parthéne, chaíre, kecharitoméni María, o Kýrios metá soú,” the man prayed for what must have been the thirtieth time. His face was streaked with dirt and dried tears, red eyes puffy and empty, clutching a black rope between his palms, worn and unravelling. Percy had listened to him weep for hours, and now all his fight was gone out of him. “Evlogiméni sý en gynaixí, kaí evlogiménos o karpós tís koilías sou, óti Sotíra…” He paused, drawing in a shuddering breath, and he did not continue, but the chant was then taken up by his Venetian brother: “Sancta Maria, Mater Dei--”
“Malaka,” Percy groaned, thumping his head against the wall. All this Greek and Latin bounced around inside of his head like a sword against a shield, preventing him from focusing on what was most important at this time, which was watching for the arrival of the Venetian ships which were supposed to be coming to their aid at any moment now. “Enough with the praying, already.”
But the words continued on, a litany of desperation. “Kyrie eleison,” the men whispered, or sobbed, or mumbled to each other. “Christe eleison. Kyrie eleison.”
He wished he could tell these men what he knew, that the gods had abandoned this city days ago, that Percy had watched them depart in fear and haste, as Aeneas fled from Troy. If he had been able to speak to himself from years past, to the young man whose eyes had just been opened to a world beyond his mortal reckoning and a father he had never even dreamed was possible, he would not have believed his own words. There was much about himself now that that young man would not recognize, Percy thought, his dwindling faith chief among them. But perhaps these men of the trinity had it right; perhaps their god was made of sterner stuff than Percy’s, and would not desert his people. He vowed, possibly foolishly, that if the city would hold for even one night longer, he would consider shifting his allegiance from the Olympians to this Pantokrator fellow.
Between the prayers and the boom of cannons, the noises of the city despairing and the ever present crashes of water against rock, he found his attention wandering, as was the curse of all children like him. Concentration required all of his faculties, and it was not his strongest skill. Things tended to get lost in space when his attention was divided all this way and that--it was no wonder that he didn’t hear the man until he and his entourage were practically on top of them.
“Make way! Make way!” 
At the base of the wall was a man, a wicked looking bolt jutting up from his chest, leaning on his fellow man for support, while his contingent fretted nervously behind him. Though his face was masked by his fancy helmet, Percy recognized the red cross on the white background, stark against the grimy metal, nearly gleaming in the dark night--as did his commander. “Giustiniani!” He shouted at the man beneath them. “What is the meaning of this!”
His red-plumed helmet lolled to the side, leaving it to his lieutenant to cry out the terrible news: “The wall has fallen! The Ottomans have got into the city!”
At the man’s words, Percy’s cohort erupted. Man scrambled over man in their haste to escape, scrambling down the towers and indeed the very walls in order to escape to the sea, where perhaps they may yet have been able to escape the slaughter which was surely coming. Their cries, thick and suffocating as prayer smoke, rose up around the noise of the oddly quiet city--surely, if the Turks had got in, as this man had claimed, the city would already be in such deadly disarray? Percy and his men were stationed at the exact opposite end of the city, they would have heard the conquest of Constantinople before they had seen it.
Quickly sparing a nasty thought to the useless Genoese, Percy leaned over the wall and shouted down, “Where?!” knowing better than to argue with him about the particulars. Not at this critical moment.
“San Romano!” he cried, hoisting his captain further up on his arm. “All is lost!”
For a single, breathless moment, the world went quiet around him, and he had one strange thought in his head: good. The gate of St. Romanus lay at the top of the Seventh Hill, far from Blachernae, where he knew the other remaining half-blood in the city had staked her claim.
Without thought to what the mortals might see, Perseus, son of Poseidon Ennosigaios, drew his father’s sword, that magical blade Anaklusmos, and leapt from his position on the Theodosian Walls, tumbling towards the ground with a perfect roll that would have made his mentor very proud. It did not take him too long to find a stray horse, nearly feral with terror, and calm her. Recognizing him as her lord’s son, the mare immediately bent to his gentle command, allowing him to swing himself upon her back, and be directed towards the Mesoteichion, where the gate of St. Romanus allegedly lay under siege.
As he suspected, Giustiniani’s man had been lying. The streets, while full of panicked Romans, did not yet pour forth with vengeful Ottomans. If Percy were to arrive in time, he could pick up where Giustiniani had abandoned his post, he could rally the troops, he could fend off the invaders. The city of Constantine could be safe for another day. Perhaps, even, he could fend off this would-be conqueror entirely! The emperor would surely be pleased enough to grant him a command of his own, and he could set forth with his navy, retake the ancient lands, draw the gods back to their ancestral home above St. Sophia. He was not a vain man, nor particularly prideful, but even he was prone to bouts of great ambition. All heroes hungered for glory, in one form or another, for recognition from their parents and their peers, and what could be more deserving of recognition than restoring the glory of the Rhomiaoi and the Hellenes? 
And yet, as he galloped through the streets of the city, there was a sinking feeling in his heart as he observed no fighting in the streets, though he could certainly hear the continuing boom of the cannons. He could see the dawn about to crest, the inky blue of the sky giving way to the grey and flushed pinks which heralded the coming of rosy-fingered Eos, so it was not the darkness which obscured his vision, despite the torches that lit the way from road to road. In fact, as he neared the walls surrounding the St. Romanus gate, he saw that there was no greater number of soldiers here than there had been in ta Eugeniou; rather, it seemed that the men of the Fifth Military Gate were holding the line as well as could be expected in times such as these. 
So where, then, was the source of the terror? What would have made a man like Giustiniani turn and flee? 
Closing his eyes, he cut off one of his senses in the futile hope that it would make his ears stronger. He could not sense battle so keenly, not like some of his fellow half-bloods could, who could sniff out a fight like food to a starving dog, but Percy was the son of the Earthshaker. Wheresoever the ground trembled, there, too, was his presence, in the tremors beneath the feet of all those who walked upon the land. The enemies’ cannons, manmade and terrible as they were, shook the ground with every piercing shot landed on the ancient walls, and he could feel it, a deep rattle in his bones which traveled from the horse beneath him into his legs, his spine, his skull. North, the tremors told him, whispering into his ear, follow us North, alongside of the wall. 
North, then. He turned his horse, and rode, every step and gallop and canter carrying him further towards the enemy. And towards her, he supposed, his counterpart here in Constantinople. Despite his best efforts, he knew her as well as he knew himself, and where the fighting was thickest, there would Annabeth Fridriksdotter be. As much as it painted him to admit it, in certain instances, she was the better fighter, and in all instances, she was the better strategist--though that couldn’t be helped, given her godly heritage, and a poor sap like Percy couldn’t hope to keep up with such a pedigree as hers, a daughter of Athena Areia. He had a feeling, however, that they would need each other if they were to take back the city. 
Though Annabeth could more than hold her own against an invading army, still he urged his horse on as fast as she could. 
He had just crested the Sixth Hill when he thought he saw her, even in the dim light, as there were simply not many soldiers in the city of Constantinople with long, flowing blonde hair. In flashing celestial bronze armor, she looked like a human torch herself, surely striking terror into the hearts of the invaders. What was most concerning, though, was that she was nearly alone up on the wall. What little he could see around her did not make for a heartening portrait; most of her fellow men were dead, or must have deserted their posts. But there she was, as terrible and awesome as her mother, and something in Percy’s heart lifted at it. Together, the two of them could break the siege, he just knew it.
Directing his horse to the nearest tower, he slipped off of her back, giving her a pat on her heaving sides for her good work, blessing her as Poseidon’s son, and she thanked him for it, in the way that horses did, then he sprinted up the steps of the tower, two at a time. 
She must have been so focused on the fight that she did not hear him approach, nearly shooting him with a pilfered crossbow. “Oh,” she scowled, keeping her weapon leveled at his chest but her finger off of the trigger. “It’s you.”
Percy glared in turn. And to think, that he had thought he would be pleased to see her. “Skjaldmær,” he greeted, the familiar jab tripping off of his tongue. “How goes the defense?”
“I shouldn’t expect you to know, Phykios, having spent the entirety of the siege playing nice with the Latins,” she spat.
“Need I remind you that the boom chain has successfully kept out enemy fleets for thousands of years?”
“And need I remind you that the enemy has rendered your little chain quite useless?” Even in the middle of battle, she still took the time to argue with him, her grey eyes flashing. “They dragged their boats over Galata!”
A fact with which he was all too aware. The enemy had indeed made a road of greased logs, moving their entire navy over the hill, bypassing the boom entirely. Though he could not reasonably have prevented it, he did try not to place too much of the blame on himself. Privately, he wondered if that mistake had been the catalyst for losing his father’s favor. “And how, pray tell, are your walls? I had thought you insisted they would be too strong to fall beneath their cannons.”
She flushed, a pretty pink. “As you can see,” she said, each word bitten off with sharp teeth, “they are still standing. They continue to serve their purpose--unlike your malakes chain.”
Percy threw his hands in the air. At this rate, they could go on forever. “Enough! I did not abandon my post just to exchange barbs with you.”
“Then you should head back,” she snapped, “and leave me to my duty.”
“Giustiniani has fallen.”
She whipped her head to him, mouth open in shock. “What?”
“I saw him. He had been struck by a crossbow bolt, and he may very well be dead by morning. His man had sworn up and down that the Turks had broken the siege.”
Mouth twisted in a grimace, she shook her head, turning her gaze back to the invaders who swarmed outside of the walls. “Not yet, but even I must admit that the Mesoteichion cannot last for much longer. Have the reinforcements arrived from Venice?”
It was his turn to deny, shaking his head. “With all this furor and rumor, I fear now they never will.”
She cursed again, condemning the gutless Latins to a long and painful rash. “Then we must hold the city.”
“Annabeth, even you cannot--”
“Do not dare presume to tell me what I can and cannot do,” she sneered. “I know you of old, Perseus. Can you not put aside our history for one day and work together for the common good?”
“I am!” He stepped towards her, uncaring of the crossbow still aimed squarely at his heart. “Annabeth, we cannot hold Constantinople. The gods have abandoned us to our fate.”
“My mother would never--”
“Rachael delivered a prophecy,” he said. She lowered her weapon, shocked--she knew as well as he did how rare that was nowadays. “And I had a vision. I saw… I saw them leave. I saw the gods as they departed from St. Sophia.”
Eyes wide, she shook her head, disbelieving. “No. No, that can’t be. You lie.”
“Do you truly think so low of me that I would lie to you about this?”
He held her gaze for a single, infinite moment, and though he had known her nearly all his life, he found that he couldn’t tell whether or not she would say “yes.”
Whatever she would say, however, he would never come to know.
Beneath them, the earth trembled violently, a quake so powerful it knocked her off of her feet, sending her stumbling into Percy’s arms, and the two of them back onto the wall walk, her body cushioned by his. Stunned as they were from the shock of the fall, they couldn’t even move from their position for several minutes as the dawning sun crept over them, bathing them in a red, bloody light.
Neither of them had the wherewithal to spare on their situation, however, as Annabeth eventually was able to raise herself up on her arms, her head twisting over her shoulder to look behind her. She blinked, her face unusually slack and soft for someone he knew to be as sharp as the dagger she carried. “The Kerkoporta,” she mumbled.
“Huh?” His ears were ringing still from the force of the blast. A cannonball must have struck near them. Shaking his head to clear it, the ringing was transmuted into screams and shouts, musical cries in a strangely familiar tongue, one he had heard spilling from the mouths of prisoners. 
“The Kerkoporta,” she said again, as if it were a riddle whose answer would become clearer the more she repeated it. “Percy, the Kerkoporta!”
The word must have meant something to her though, because she scrambled off of him, crawling over to the lip of the wall walk, nearly throwing herself off of it as she craned her neck to look. Whatever it was she saw, it was so horrible that she uttered a terrible, heaving sob.
“What?” He asked. “What is it?”
“The Kerkoporta,” she repeated, turning back to him, and he was shocked to see her face in the sunlight, caked in dust and grime, streaked with tears. “It had to have been. Percy, they--the gate, it--” With another cry of grief, she cut herself off, curling into herself, her hands coming up to grasp at her filthy hair. 
Stumbling to his feet, he lumbered over to her, his hands hovering over her shaking shoulders. All around him, the screams of the defending army echoed from every stone and corner, inextricably woven with the blowing of terrible horns, the pounding of hooves of pavement, the alien war cries of the invaders, the thumping of his blood in his ears, nearly drowning them all out. He couldn’t look. He couldn’t make himself look.
“Annabeth,” he murmured, placing his hands on her shoulders. She didn’t even jump at the feeling, or turn round to smack him for his insolence. “Annabeth, we need to leave.”
She shook her head, growling even as she hunched over, clutching her stomach as though she were about to be sick, as though something irreplaceable were pouring out of her, her hands attempting in vain to staunch the flow. “No,” she moaned, voice thick and angry, “I cannot leave.”
“Annabeth--”
“I will not leave,” she said, her voice rising in pitch and strength, “not until the city of the gods has been reclaimed, in the name of my mother, Athena Polias!” And she shrieked, like some kind of crazed, bloodied animal, hungry for flesh, for vengeance, for glory.
She would take him to the ground for what he was about to do to her, and she should, but for all of her admirable ferocity, it would get her killed at this time, and Percy could not abide that. He would not. Taking her by the shoulders, he lifted her up, pulling her up to eye level, and he shook her, short, sharp, once, twice, three times. “Annabeth!” he barked, pouring all of his force and his sway as the son of the sea god into his voice, whatever amount that might be. “Constantinople is lost. The gods have abandoned us.”
For a heart stopping moment, he thought she might not listen to him. Among his powers, this was not one he chose to exercise often. Many had told him that he had a certain draw to him, a kind of inexplicable allure which compelled all those who listened to obey him. It worked chiefly, he was sad to say, on the mortals of his regiment, who could not comprehend his divine parentage, but recognized that there was something strange and otherworldly about him nonetheless, and reacted as such. It had never worked on Annabeth, nor any other demigod, but specifically her. It had been theorized that the hatred their respective parents had for each other would cancel out any kind of charm they could cast--but desperate times were desperate times, and called for desperate action.
“The gods may have left us to our doom, but we do not have to let it swallow us whole. We must escape--for Olympus, if not for ourselves.”
He had never been this close to her in his life, he realized, somewhere in the maelstrom of his thoughts. For much of their unhappy acquaintance, she had been taller than him, a fact he lamented as often as he could, and as loudly. But now he towered over her, nearly a full head, though he knew he would have been hard pressed to defeat her in a simple pankration, without a weapon between the two of them. In her gleaming armor, dented from a thousand blows and strikes, she looked every inch the goddess she wished to emulate, radiating otherworldly light. 
Her messy hair whipped in the wind, the blonde curls darkened with ash and dirt, though strands of gold could still be seen, here and there. The thundercloud grey of her eyes shone, sparkling in the bloody dawn, steely, resolved. There was not a force in existence that could move her if she did not wish to be moved, no magical wind or mortal weapon, and as much as she had tormented him through his childhood, he had to admit to himself, in this moment, it was something he had always admired about her. 
A further blast of the enemy’s cannon shattered their moment, and they stumbled again. Her shoulders in his hands, she nodded, blowing out a shuddering breath. “Sỳn Athēnâi kaì kheîra kinei,” she said, bowing her head.
“Along with Athena, move also your hand,” he repeated, the words of the fabulist as fresh in his memory as they were when she had first told them to him. “We will save ourselves, and fortune will follow.”
Removing herself from his grasp, she scrubbed at her eyes, letting out one final scream into her hands, and Percy tried not to dwell on the sudden emptiness of his embrace. “Fine,” she said, wiping her nose. “Do you have a plan to escape?”
He grimaced. “I do. And I apologize, in advance.”
She frowned. “What do you--”
Then she shrieked as he grabbed her around the waist and leapt once more from the wall, hoping that she recalled enough of her training to roll with him and land safely. “If we can make it to the Prosphorion Harbor,” he said, ignoring her glare as he swung up once more on his horse’s back, “I will be able to see us safely out of the harbor.”
“With what ship?” 
“We will not require a ship.” Holding his left hand out to her, with his other, he drew Anaklusmos, his senses alight with the sound and scents of steel on steel, of blood on stone. This is what they were bred for, their mentor had always told them, for battle and war. This was their destiny, and one he was happy to fulfill at this moment.
“How do you think you’re going to get past the Ottoman blockade without even a malakes ship?”
“Safely.” He wiggled his fingers at her, growling when she did not take it. “Trust me, Annabeth.”
Snarling, teeth bared, she took his hand eventually, using him to swing herself up behind him. “Give me your sword.”
“I beg your pardon?” 
“You ride, I shall fight. Give me your sword.”
It was a sound plan. He handed it off to her, and kicked his heels. The horse, needing no further prompting, broke into a gallop, and they headed East through the city, into the red, bloody sunrise.
Percy kept his eyes straight ahead. He would not look at the scene which unfolded around him. He did not hear the screams of men and women, the cries of children, the snapping of beams as homes burned and churches were looted; he could not spare a glance to every flash of steel in the firelight, to every blurry shape that darted past them, for if he did, he would be lost, and he would have to cease in his flight in order to help them, no matter the cost. Is this what his father felt, when he turned his back on his people? Is this how the king of the gods was able to console himself as he fled the city, leaving them to ruin? And what of the trinity god, this Pantokrator, whose name had been praised in this city for a thousand years? 
All gods were the same, he thus determined. Empty words and broken promises, the lot of them.
From behind him, Annabeth slashed at any oncoming enemies, keeping the attackers off of them with grace and brutality both. “Right!” she commanded, and he turned the horse, ducking down a back road, out of the way of an oncoming wave of Ottomans. “Turn left!” she would order, so that they could avoid a burning church. In this manner they wandered their way through the ruined city, inching ever closer to the bay. They passed women running with bread and gold clutched in their grasps, homes and buildings already burnt to the ground, a man in a purple cloak throwing himself into the fray, and on and on until they finally arrived at the harbor. As though being on a horse were repulsive to her, she threw herself off onto the ground, not even waiting for him to follow her, as she rushed to the water’s edge. 
He did not think she would abscond with his sword, so he took a moment to bless his horse once again, and to suggest that she head North, beyond the ruined walls of the conquered city, where she could be free and happy, unyoked by any man, and she bowed her head to him, before complying with his wishes.
A loud cry broke him from his reverie, and he turned to see a great big brute of a man, clutching his stomach as he fell to the ground. Annabeth brandished his sword as she did with any weapon she laid her hands on, with enormous skill. Though she favored the dagger, she was equally proficient with a longer blade, and it seemed that she only increased her talent every time he saw her fight--and yet she seemed not to notice the two men that advanced on her from behind. “Annabeth!” He called, running towards her.
On his shout, she pivoted, sword outstretched, cutting one but missing the other. Drawn by the noises, more men began to swarm, like flies to a corpse.
It did not matter that they were surrounded by mortals--they would make sense of what they had seen on this day somehow.
With a great yell, he focused his outstretched hands, calling on the power of the water in the harbor. It churned beneath the docks as though Percy possessed by the power of the moon itself, pushing and pulling as the waves grew higher and higher, until one wave towered over the rest. Wrapping his arms around Annabeth once more, he felt that familiar pull deep within the core of him, and the water reached out to them, wrapping them up like a mother’s embrace, pulling them into the sea. 
Annabeth, to her credit, did not thrash or scream beneath the waves, though she gasped in surprise as Percy extended his power to her, momentarily lending her the gift of breath underwater. Pushing them into the path of the current, the water cleaved around them as they were dragged out to the greater sea, passing beneath the greater ships of the Ottomans. In the water, he was granted with clearer, sharper vision, and it was only through the grace of his father that he was able to see the split boom chain, torn asunder, floating lifelessly in the waters of the Bosphorus, like two amputated limbs. 
Down, the current dragged them further, to the very bottom of the sea. For safety and for comfort, Annabeth buried her face into his shirt, and she wept. She wept loudly and piteously enough that her tears could double the size of the Aegean, as she wept for the city of her youth and for the passing of an age. She wept for the thousand year old walls and churches which would soon be reduced to nothing but ash and rubble, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He buried his face in her hair, her golden curls floating, reaching towards the surface, and they held each other tight as their world burned above them.
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chiseler · 4 years
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ATOMIC BILL
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On August 9, 1945, when the B-29 known as Bockscar dropped an atom bomb on Nagasaki, a civilian named William Laurence gazed out a window of the observation plane flying beside it. He later described the immense column of smoke and fire after the explosion as "a living thing, a new species of being, born right before our incredulous eyes," a "flowerlike form, its giant petals curving downward, creamy white outside, rose-colored inside." He did not mention that this flowerlike creature had just obliterated some 75,000 human beings.
Laurence wasn't just any civilian. He was the science writer for the New York Times. Through a top secret arrangement between Times publisher Arthur Hays Sulzberger and the Manhattan Project's General Leslie Groves the previous spring, Laurence was the only journalist in the world allowed inside the atomic bomb program. Sulzberger agreed that nothing Laurence wrote would appear in public until the government had cleared it for viewing. He further agreed that whatever the Times did eventually print would be distributed free to other newspapers. This made the New York Times the world's first source for insider information on the bomb – and, as it turned out, one of the government's principle conduits for disseminating propaganda and even outright lies about it.
William Laurence was not born William Laurence. He was born Leib Wolf Siew in Lithuania, in 1888, in a shtetl where he studied the Talmud and learned to read English, German and Russian. At 17, he avoided conscription into the Czar's army by hiding in a pickle barrel that was shipped to Germany. When he sailed into New York harbor in 1905 the only English he knew was the Shakespeare he'd read. He went on to Harvard, renaming himself William for Shakespeare and Laurence for a street he lived on.
In the mid-1920s he moved to New York City, and in 1930 the Times hired him as one of the first science writers in an American newspaper. That June he wrote a full-page article, "The Quest of Science for an Atomic Energy," a full eight years before the first atom was split. From then on he was such an enthusiastic and awe-struck booster for the potential of atomic energy that he was nicknamed "Atomic Bill" by fellow writers. In early 1939 he was as excited as any physicist to hear that nuclear fission had been achieved. He wrote numerous articles that year and into the spring of 1940 about it. Then the government clamped the lid on press about atomic research. Laurence wouldn't write about it again in the Times until after Nagasaki.
Laurence's "119 days behind the atomic curtain," as he called it, was a dream job. He happily wrote reports for Washington and even press releases for Groves, "in effect functioning as the Manhattan Project's public-relations man," as historian Paul Boyer puts it. He was at the successful Trinity test in July. In his article about it, not published in the Times until September 26, he wrote, "One felt as though he had been privileged to witness the Birth of the World – to be present at the moment of Creation when the Lord said: Let there be light." In a very long article, he scarcely mentioned that it was also a moment of destruction, and made only a fleeting, offhand reference to radioactive fallout.
He went to Tinian, where the Enola Gay took off to bomb Hiroshima on August 6, but was not allowed on that flight. His long report on the Nagasaki bombing started on the front page of the Times on Sunday, September 9, a week after Japan had formally surrendered. He only mentions the city's doomed civilians once, when he recalls musing on the flight from Tinian toward Japan, "Does one feel any pity or compassion for the poor devils about to die? Not when one thinks of Pearl Harbor and of the Death March on Bataan." He describes Fat Man, the plutonium bomb that smashed the city, as "a thing of beauty to behold."
In the days and weeks after the two bombs were dropped, the government made a special effort to deny the effects or even the existence of radioactive fallout. Americans were encouraged to think of the atomic bomb as just a bigger version of conventional explosives, not a new terror weapon that spread lingering death and disease. This made it easier for voters to accept that the bombings in Japan were justified, and to acquiesce to the future testing on American soil that the government planned to conduct.
Laurence and the New York Times were major collaborators in this deception. The Times ran 132 bomb-related items in the first five days after Hiroshima. Only one of them mentioned the dangers of radioactivity – and then only to refute them. This was in response to an International News Service article that appeared in many newspapers around the country on August 7 and 8. It was written by a Columbia physicist, Dr. Harold Jacobson, who had spent two years, in what he admitted was a "minor official capacity," on the Manhattan Project. Jacobson said that the levels of radiation in and around Hiroshima were so high that anyone entering the city was "committing suicide," and predicted the city would remain "a devastated area not unlike our conception of the moon for nearly three quarters of a century." Rainfall would "pick up the deadly rays" and carry them into rivers and seas, killing all the creatures in the water.
The official reaction was immediate and harsh. On August 8, both the War Department and the Manhattan Project's J. Robert Oppenheimer issued statements categorically refuting Jacobson. After being grilled by FBI agents for hours that day, reportedly "ill and upset by the furor his article had engendered," Jacobson issued a statement in which he effectively recanted. The Times article, which ran on August 9, bore the headline "70-Year Effect of Bombs Denied."
On September 12 the Times published Laurence's "U.S. Atom Bomb Site Belies Tokyo Tales," with the subhead "Tests on New Mexico Range Confirm That Blast, and Not Radiation, Took Toll." Groves and Oppenheimer led Laurence and a carefully selected group of other newsmen into the Trinity site, where Geiger counters barely ticked, proving to Laurence that residual radiation at the site was "down to a minute quantity, safe for continuous human habitation." Claims of radiation poisoning at Hiroshima, Laurence wrote, were "Japanese propaganda… attempting to create sympathy for themselves."
It wasn't until almost a year later, in the August 31, 1946 issue of the New Yorker, that Americans began to get a truer, fuller idea of the bombs' impact from John Hersey's "Hiroshima."
Unlike Oppenheimer, William Laurence never seemed to entertain second thoughts about atomic weapons. He continued to write enthusiastically about the potentials of atomic energy, and in 1956 he was in the press corps for a hydrogen bomb test at Eniwetok in the Pacific. That year he was promoted to science editor, a position he held into the 1960s. He died in 1977 at the age of 89.
Further reading: Paul Boyer's By the Bomb’s Early Light; Richard Rhodes' The Making of the Atomic Bomb.
by John Strausbaugh
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narcisoalui · 5 years
Text
Hydrofluoric
Ship: RoyEd
Summary: They say things always come in threes, thirds, trinities, thrice, and now Roy comes in three decades. A three and a zero — that must be quite unbalanced, and he has no idea how can someone expect “three” and “zero” to mean “established”. How could Roybe, when he is a half? Halfhearted, halfway, halfsoul— where is his rest?
He is thirty. And if you are past twenty without ever hearing from your soulmate, you’re as good as a zero point five running around the world. When Roy looks in the mirror, he’s pretty sure he is a zero point three.
Rating: Teen and Up
Warnings/tags: Soulmate AU, FMA03 Post-CoS, Angst, references to self-harm/depression/alcoholism, happy ending, Ed is 18-19
read on ao3: https :// archiveofourown .org/works /18210548
Roy opens his eye to a room that should be his. Nothing ever feels like him, and neither do these four white walls — the warmest covers wouldn’t be able to shake the cold off, the strongest fire wouldn’t be able to brighten the lackluster environment away. Inside of that wardrobe are only masks, those blue and gold costumes he puts on every morning alongside with his eyepatch, to hide something, whatever it is. When he stares out of the window, the dark sky seems more comfortable than his own bed.
The clock on the bedside table says 2 a.m., and he sighs. He is officially thirty now. They say things always come in threes, thirds, trinities, thrice, and now Roy comes in three decades. A three and a zero — that must be quite unbalanced, and he has no idea how can someone expect “three” and “zero” to mean “established”. How could Roy be, when he is a half? Halfhearted, halfway, halfsoul— where is his rest?
He is thirty. And if you are past twenty without ever hearing from your soulmate, you’re as good as a zero point five running around the world. When Roy looks in the mirror, he’s pretty sure he is a zero point three.
The eyepatch is in the drawer, and if he wants to get out of bed he will have to put it on. Lying awake in bed without the garment makes him feel more naked than standing in front of a mirror with all his clothes off — it is odd, when he can’t sense the scratchy edge on his cheek. He sits on the mattress, gathering strength to put his feet on the floor that has been looking suspiciously cold ever since autumn started. He tries to stand up while adjusting the black strips on the back of his head and almost trips on a cover tangled on his ankle, and that’s when he realizes how fucking dark the place is.
No coffee, he tells himself as he stumbles down the stairs, because no one should ingest caffeine at two in the morning. Now, scotch — that sounds like an acceptable insomnia drink. There’s a half-bottle (zero point five zero point five) somewhere in the house, and as soon as he finds it he’s going to pour himself a generous glass and sing happy birthday. Top-notch celebration.
Roy ends up with five ‘generous glasses’ and the couch. He has an unnecessary amount of pillows here, and the cushions feel like butter under his back; too bad he has no blankets, it would be nice to pull one up to his nose. He could probably roll it around himself, like a cocoon — no cold, he thinks wistfully, as he shoves his heels onto the armrest like a child trying to leave dents. If he had blankets, he wouldn’t have to climb the stairs and go back to bed. He could just stay here, frowning at the fireplace and trying to understand why it doesn’t light up when he snaps his fingers.
Looking at the back of his hands, he wonders what went wrong. That must have been something, why would fate leave him alone when everyone else had their halves? Never once he has seen a word on the skin there, just bluish veins and occasional kitchen burns. It’s foolish, but sometimes Roy wants to scratch until he sees blood, maybe he can find something there on his flesh. He can’t be alone, right? This isn’t a possibility.
But perhaps, he muses, the problem here is not the inexistence of a soulmate. That’s so unlike it’s almost impossible — like winning the lottery, except that in this case, it’s more losing. Perhaps the issue is not his soulmate, but actually Roy. What could one say about Roy Mustang that does not revolve around, dammit, war crimes? Political scandals, bloodshed? Womanizing? He built a reputation around himself and has been wearing it over his head like a crown ever since.
So what would his soulmate say, Mustang is a good liar? Considering the things lies have brought down onto him, would that even be a compliment or more like a disdainful curse?
Actually, there’s no way ‘good liar’ could sound good. Thank god it never appeared on his skin.
Debating between going back to bed or not, Roy falls asleep on the couch. In the morning, with a bitter taste on his tongue from the badly-timed alcohol, he regrets his lack of forethought. His neck aches, his shoulders are so stiff he can barely move. When did he become such a picky sleeper? He clearly recalls not having such issues while staying in the North. Or perhaps the cold just made him numb to most kinds of pain.
Thursday is Hawkeye’s day to pick him up. It makes Roy feel like a toddler, but his Major has a schedule passed between her and Havoc to assure someone of trust is always going to take him back and forth, home and work, work and home. Roy is not quite sure if she is afraid of someone attacking him on his way there, or if she just can’t trust him to drive safely — he wouldn't admit it out loud, but both are equally deadly.
She knocks five minutes earlier like she always does and Roy is thankfully dressed; however, his mind is still only half-way ready and Riza gives him the slightest of frowns when he almost trips at the doorway. Their pleasantries are exchanged with all the professionalism he can muster, and when they lock themselves inside of the car she turns to him with a blank expression.
“Major, don’t—”
“Happy birthday,” she cuts him off, lips curling slightly upwards, “sir.”
He snorts a dry laugh and looks away. Next year it’ll be you, he remembers vindictively, as Riza drives them to headquarters with the shadow of a smile on her face.
Although in the office he still has some respect — one glare, nobody says a thing — he doubts it will be for long. Roy’s long accustomed to unwanted commentaries, but for today he just wished he could tune out all the noise and go lay on the couch again. He feels… odd. Not that he hasn’t felt odd before, but there’s something entirely bizarre of realizing he has already lived a good fraction of the number of years he is supposed to live.
In more precise words, he feels old. Gross.
He presses a knuckle to his left temple. There is a pulse there, or perhaps the beginning of a headache, and he puts even more pressure on the spot. The words on the paper in front of him make no sense, he tries to add them together (subject verb object dependent clause) but the cluster of them keeps getting lost somewhere, as if he can only focus on the shape each dark-inked letter creates above the white. He mouths the word ‘reassigned’ and what the fuck does that mean again?
Thankfully, his schedule is clear of meetings for today; there is one tomorrow but since it’s with a lower-ranking officer, Hawkeye could probably get rid of it for him? Not that he is brave enough to ask.
A knock on the door interrupts his internal debate, and Roy almost lets out a relieved breath.
Nowadays Edward Elric announces his arrival, but still doesn’t wait for permission to come in. Somehow, the action seems even more insubordinate than the obnoxious door-banging he did as a teenager, almost as if he does it out of spite. See, I’m polite now, so I guess you can’t complain anymore, Colonel Bastard. Roy can almost hear the impervious snort.
Another thing Fullmetal has changed after his otherworldly stay is his clothing choice. As far as Roy knows, the muted browns are only discarded for the blue military uniform — which still catches Rog off guard. His mental image of Edward has always been vibrant and, although it is certainly a good sign that he turned soberer as he grew, the lack of red and shiny leather feels unknown.
But it is good — Edward on his own, golden and contradicting graceful, is already attention-catching enough. Any more and it would be too much.
Edward Elric smiles devilishly at him, which is unusual for a soldier and usual for Ed. “Slacking off again, old man? Hawkeye is only a few steps away, you shouldn’t trust your luck that much.”
With his elbows on the tabletop, Roy rests his chin over his crossed fingers, smirking all throughout the whole movement. Fullmetal is— refreshing, at least. Roy could use many other words, ranging from the lowest insults to the most endearing terms, but he tries to not think about those much. At this point, he probably shouldn’t go around complimenting people, especially those who have so many reasons to be complimented.
Old. He almost flinches.
“And neither should you, Fullmetal,” he mockingly warns, “if you are here, making up such perilous allegations, it certainly means you have an awful lot of free time and I should put you to good use.”
Ed lets out a dry laugh.
“Free time?! Even if I did have any free time I wouldn’t spend it with a bastard like you.”
Ouch. Roy knows it was not meant to hurt and it really doesn’t. It’s just a small sting, like a needle poking the inside of his elbow — ouch, and it’s over, brushed aside with unsurprising ease. He tilts his head to the side and broadens the teasing smile.
“I happen to know many who would disagree with you on that.”
“Sure, but I’m not one of them.”
“Touché,” Roy shrugs, “but your insistent denial inevitably raises some suspicions.”
The blush spreading over Fullmetal’s cheeks might be of annoyance, but still ridiculously endearing.
“Shut up.”
Roy does, for the sake of savoring his small victory. Edward pulls a file from what seems to be the thin air — that, or Roy has been too occupied observing the line of Ed’s jaw to notice whatever he might be holding in his hands. Which by the way he is noticing now. His hands — and throws it over the desk, adding more papers to the already overflowing stack and making Roy wince internally. Scowling, Ed crosses his arms and looks at the raven-haired man from where he stands.
“This was you.”
And Roy has no idea what he is talking about.
Tentatively, he pries the folder open and reads a few scattered words — he can barely concentrate, and with Fullmetal’s heavy gaze on him, his brain is all over the place. Tringham and organic matter and research space and some disjointed syllables.
“I see you took the day to accuse me without any solid proof.”
“Mustang,” he growls, “this ain’t an accusation, I know it was you working behind the curtains like you always do. I told you he needed money less than a month ago.”
Roy’s eyes flicker away from his and that is probably enough to give him away. He has some fault indeed, but if Edward thinks he did anything more than pull a few strings, he is very mistaken. Russell Tringham has his own impressive abilities and curriculum, all Roy had to do was give him a spot to show off. He opens his hands in mock surrender. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call it ‘work’, but I suppose you caught me this time.”
“You need to stop—”
“I didn’t do it because of you.” Which is true. Eighty percent true at least, and for a politician that is exponential honesty. “There are many other things I could do to fall on your good graces, Fullmetal, and giving a job to a man you so emphatically despise surely isn’t one of them.”
Edward squints and Roy’s confidence is back where it belongs, so his smile turns even more malicious. “Unless, of course, this happens to be another case of you displaying your affections rather aggressively.”
He can see the traces of the familiar anger heating the blond alchemist, but at some point along the back and forth between worlds, Ed seems to have learned to not fall for his traps — at least some of them, Roy still liked to think he was a master at pushing Edward’s buttons.
“Fuck you,” he says, like no soldier would ever be able to, “and why the fuck would you need someone like Russel Tringham working in the military, uh?”
“Oh, I don’t need him, specifically, he just happened to be there.”
Lie. If the man had not applied for State Alchemist Roy would have done whatever it was necessary to have him. No other botanist would catch Ed’s attention and wasn’t that the other twenty percent of his reasoning? Roy leans back against the chair, crossing his legs and preparing himself for a bit of self-exposure.
“The previous alchemist had his hands dirty with… let’s just say it was something other than soil,” he explains, “Botanical alchemy is not a widely studied field but Mr.Tringham has interests aligned with those of the military. All that took was a little shove, and anyone could see that he was a much better alternative.”
Edward stares at him — an intense, distrusting stare; the one reserved for when he knows Roy is flourishing stories, pulling him away from the true meaning of his actions. Roy, who has clearly lost the fear of death after being the at the receiving end of Hawkeye’s stares, doesn’t even flinch. Surprisingly, Fullmetal decides to not press the topic any further.
“Whatever,” Ed groans, “I guess you know what to do with even the fucking smallest pieces of information.”
“Obviously.”
“If you weren’t such a sly bastard,” he says as he turns back and walks to the door, “I would say you’re pretty smart.”
Oh.
Before Ed can slam the door shut, he looks over his shoulder with an uncharacteristic smile. “And by the way, happy birthday.”
The backs of Roy’s hands are burning so hot he barely registers the blond’s obnoxious exiting. He knows those will be empty, oh he swears he knows, but not even the most logical and clear argument could stop from ripping his gloves off as soon as Edward leaves the room.
His skin is so clean he wants to tear it with his nails.
Throughout the whole day, Havoc keeps subtly trying to convince Roy to go to a bar with them after work. It has the potential to be touching but Havoc needs to work a lot on manipulative skills — he simply keeps mentioning drinks and women to Breda, trying to get Roy to join them in the conversation — and the situation is only laughable. At some point, Roy does consider tapping him on the shoulder and saying that, yes, Roy can put one round on his tab and all this scene is not really necessary. Precisely because Hawkeye wants to go, but she will only if he goes too, and Roy supposes he needs to be the good friend from time to time.
By lunchtime, Edward agrees to join them and Roy’s mood improves a little bit.
He tells himself that he should stop indulging hopes that are nothing but— well, hopes. Roy likes to think he has some self-control left around Ed as to not let scraps of affection tear an action out of him — in other words, he is terribly afraid of confessing, or thinking that Ed likes him enough that he can say more than he should and get away with it. Which is unlike, and he is aware of that. But feelings can cloud even the most righteous reasoning, and Ed has the awful habit of making Roy believe he can do things.
Alongside with surreal infatuations walks shame. He has been feeling it ever since his heart decided to do a tap dance while he was looking at Edward, and the timing couldn’t be more off — Ed was young, and Roy was embarrassed at his youngness, and since then he has been trying to find an excuse for it. Maybe if they were fated, he could get away with wanting to monopolize Edward’s attention whenever they are both in the same room.
But of course, this is a petty dream. Roy is somewhat arrogant, yes, but he wouldn’t think so highly of himself to believe the two of them could be soulmates. Edward deserves much better. Roy is the fraction of a fraction and he is… whole. Smart, beautiful, fierce, trustworthy. Ed needs another one so they can form two and be harmonic. If Fate is really out there playing matchmaker, it wouldn’t be so cruel as to put somebody like that with Roy, for God’s sake.
And yet, he wishes. A frail character, really.
In the end, who can judge him? Maes hadn’t, even if Edward had been embarrassingly teenagery back then — and Roy is grateful for his, what, understanding? Compassion? Mercy?
The truth is, anyone in their right mind would admit both the Elrics are blindingly attractive. Alphonse is everything one could ask for: good-looking, polite, charming, with intelligence beyond most minds — and Roy has seen Ed complaining before, with thinly veiled pride, that out of them, Alphonse is the one people would gladly spend their lives with. Edward, however, has a different type of lure to him. Alphonse is approachable, and Edward is pulling. People are dragged to him like elements to Fluorine, and just like that they are stuck, happily sharing their electrons with that unimaginable force.
And Roy, like a small Hydrogen, orbits him through and through. What a shame all they form together is corrosive destruction.
Roy dedicates what’s left of his attention span to the last documents of the day, feeling that usual laziness striking. Stay at home, it says; then, with a jolt of electricity, Ed is coming. With the final signature, he lets out a loud sigh and stretches. Happy birthday!
There is a small commotion behind the door, and as Roy leaves the inner office he sees Breda and Falman trying to organize who will drive who and Havoc complaining about their destination. Riza looks professional even with her jacket unbuttoned, which is not that impressive anymore, and Kain Fuery seems more interested in his wristwatch than the discussion taking place right beside him. When his eyes find Edward, the blond shoots a warm grin that breaks Roy’s brain a little bit more.
“Here comes the birthday boy!” Ed shouts.
They let out some loud greetings that Roy is a bit too glad to receive and he smiles at all of them, his cheek brushing against the edge of the eye patch and probably making it move ridiculously. He wants— to hide, or something alike, but at the same time bask in their cheerfulness.
With everything settled, Roy ends up in the most empty of the cars and he almost gives up the comfort of the passenger seat to sit next to Edward in the back. Kain rides there instead, and Riza drives because Roy was a disaster driver even with two perfectly functional eyes. The bar — probably Breda’s picking — is on a loud street’s corner, vibrating with happy clients and partially acceptable music.
Inside, the noise of the other patrons makes him feel a bit more optimistic — all these people are joyful, so he could be too, right? His heart clenches a bit when Edward chooses to sit next to him, and he has to resist the sudden urge to put his hands on the arms resting crossed over the table top. Breda orders beers and Kain's timid suggestion for onion rings is taken very positively by everyone. With those settled, the conversation picks up ranging from cursing paperwork to did I tell you about that time a man tried to hit on Hawkeye, and Roy is truly grateful. If there’s one thing he is good at, is pointless chatter. But when he has these people around him, it feels— not pointless, because they are his friends, aren’t they?
Even Edward, who seems to scowl at anything he deems to be moving for too long, seems genuinely invested. It gives Roy an odd sense of satisfaction, to know he feels comfortable around them — or him, but maybe that’s reading too much into it. Ed, throwing his head to the side with a toothy grin. Ed, telling stories of his own that sound way more impressive to his peers than to himself. Ed, scoffing at Havoc’s stupid ex-girlfriends. Ed, and Roy wonders at which moment exactly he became the center of the universe.
When they talk, the two of them, it feels like one of the cheesy moments in novels where everything halts. Under Ed’s inhuman focus, Roy feels like he matters — this person, Edward Elric, truly believes that Roy is is more than a bunch of cells with low levels of serotonin. They argue, it has always been their favorite pastime, and Ed looks about to throw him across the room for disagreeing with him about some stupid symbol and Roy is overwhelmed with a delicious feeling of completion.
“God, Fullmetal, I’m just teasing you,” he says, between a soft laugh, “you don’t need to fight this hard, I already think you are brilliant.”
However, he doesn’t get the expected reaction — a snarky remark or well-worded fuck off; instead, the blood freezes, eyes widening as color quickly leaves his features. It resembles fear, and Roy is frantically reviewing their entire conversation because Ed is not one to crumble with simple rhetoric. Then, Roy makes the mistake of averting the blond’s eyes, and he looks down and—
Ed jumps out of his seat and runs for the door.
The second he is out, Riza turns to him. “What did you say?”
He should be offended by her readiness to point him as the wrongdoer, but his brain is still dwelling on the fact that Edward just ran away after Roy said something that… really couldn’t be taken as flirty, right? Or could it? Ed is brilliant — it wasn’t a compliment or flattery, it was just stating facts. And even if could, there have been moments when their interactions have sounded way less platonic.
“Nothing!” He defensively blurts out. “We were just— it was a heated discussion but I didn’t— I don’t know what happened!”
All eyes fall on him, and Roy feels the breath being punched out of him. He fucked up, and he doesn’t know why, and it’s only after Riza’s glare that he takes initiative to find out. Roy gets up, crosses the bar in hurried steps, and opens the door to the cold breeze of the night.
Unexpectedly, he finds Ed hidden in an alley just around the corner. He is pacing back and forth, like a lion locked inside of a cage. For a few seconds, Roy observes from the distance, scared of the beast he could set free with an inappropriate choice of words. “Fullmetal?”
The blond startles, and his first reflex is to snap at Roy. “Get the fuck away from me.”
This — anger, volatility — this is what Roy knows. He can’t understand Ed, deer-in-the-headlights-Ed, with his face pale and shoulders slumped. But just because he knows, it doesn’t mean that he likes.
“No,” he says, “what happen—”
“Don’t you dare to pretend to care!”
“I do!” Roy does — more than he should. They are friends, or at least Roy thinks so and he would be immensely glad if Ed could think that too. “But I can’t apologize if you don’t tell me what I did to—”
”Fuck you,” he barks, “you’re so full of shit, all the fucking time, I don’t even get why we— fuck you!”
“I never meant to offend you!”
“Offend me?!” Ed stares at him with bloodshot eyes, frowning as if he is experiencing some kind of physical pain. Roy is desperate to reach out, pull him closer and run his hands up and down his back, but there are so many boundaries. Ed wouldn’t let him. “You don’t need to offend me to screw with my head, and you know that very well.”
Roy feels the very first sparks of anger heating his chest and he snarls. “Why are you always so keen on accusing me? I don’t have a single clue what you’re talking about!”
“Stop acting!”
“I am not!” Roy shouts back. “You go around saying that you are not a kid anymore, yet when someone tries to talk to you, you throw a—”
“Of course! I’m the child here, and not the grown ass man who can’t even show some respect for other people’s feelings!” Edward raises his hands in mocked defeat, “I wish we could be at least friends, but you have to go a pull a stunt like that in front of everyone—!”
“What stunt?! I was just talking to you, we’ve done that countless times before! What are you talking about?!”
“You really don’t know?”
His voice is like a whisper, weak and frail and once again leaves Roy bereft. Edward blinks, looks down and then back at him, breath hitching and coming out in a shaky puff. Then he sighs, shaking his head and smiling, relieved of a burden that Roy has never known he was carrying.
“Your really don’t know.”
“Fullmetal, talk to me, so I can understand.”
“It’s okay,” he says and sounds more truthful than it should, “I’m sorry for this, sorry for acting like a fucking crybaby in the middle of your birthday celebration.”
“It’s alright, but please—”
Ed lets out a dry laugh. “It’s really not, but of course you’d say it is.”
“Fullmetal…”
“I think I’m gonna head home for tonight,” he whispers. They are close enough for Roy to see the wetness on the corners of his eyes. “It was nice though, being here with you and everyone.”
“Are you sure you can’t any longer?” Please stay, Roy wants to say, but he already reached his daily quota of saying things out of impulse today.
Edward shakes his head and then looks away. He doesn’t move, so neither does Roy and they stand silently in the middle of an alley in Central. There is something surrounding them, that usual tension, but it doesn’t burn; it feels more like ashes in a fireplace, warm but useless, and Roy really wishes he could blow it away.
Arms wrap around his shoulders suddenly, clumsy and awkward. Roy’s heart can probably be heard from miles away, and his brain-body coordination must be severely damaged. He is so shocked he can’t hug back. Ed lets go of him too quickly though, taking many steps back as if Roy had burnt him, and shoves his hands inside his pockets. “Happy birthday, bastard.”
Roy stupidly stares at his back as he leaves.
He frowns, trying to make sense of what just happened. Edward is such an outspoken person, but he has this strange dichotomy to him — he makes a lot of sense and is very predictable, but at the same time he makes little sense and is not predictable at all. He is pretty much like a bomb; you can grasp the concept (it blows up) but the practicalities are a bit confusing if you don’t have a clear explanation (when and how).
Roy’s right hand feels weird. The back tingles, as if a tiny needle is running against it; not really painful, but definitely annoying. It itches and it doesn’t stop even when he scratches. Must be an insect, he curses and peels his glove off, turning it inside out so he can pat the tiny beast away. He glimpses something on his skin and freezes.
No, he thinks, even as he read and rereads the word temporarily tattooed to his skin in a scribble.
b a s t a r d
For a few seconds, his cognitive functioning is interrupted. The world around him is oddly dense and fluid, like water surrounding him from all sides but without enough strength to make him move an inch. He takes a deep breath, and his brain slightly acknowledges that, yes, he is a physical being and he has lungs and he is not going to drown in the middle of an alley and that he really needs to talk to Ed. Now, his brain says, and Roy wholeheartedly agrees.
He has half a mind to go back inside and shove some money into Riza’s hands, then he leaves under concerned exclamations that he is too distracted to answer in a polysyllabic manner. Right now, the only thing he can think of is getting to Ed (Ed Ed Ed) and doing his best to—
Running down the street, Roy feels without brakes. He can do this, Edward has never been so close to him before even if it is not physically; this once, this once, this once it is going to be them, and Roy begs all the gods he can remember that he will be able to hold the self-doubt at bay for just this once. So what if Ed hid it from him? So what if he obviously had no intentions to tell him now? Surely he has plans to do it one day, doesn’t he? Roy needs a chance, deserves a chance to—
Edward hates him. It must sound like punishment to have somebody like Roy as a soulmate, and he has all the rights to deny it and hide it and play tug of war with Fate for as long as he wants. Roy understands now, oh he does! A soulmate is not a bracket, but a liability. The universe gives him a half, but humans are empowered with their own choices and feelings and judgments and— in the end, free-will supersedes all sorts of cosmic acquaintances. Roy is entitled to a soulmate, not love — if that is what he wants, he needs to convince them, convince Ed he should stay.
And Edward is, by all means, convinced that he shouldn’t.
But Roy holds the power to change that right here in his hands.
When he sees Ed’s back — broad, blue jacket, ponytail instead of braid, oh god, did Roy just shiver? — he almost turns away. His steps turn significantly slower with the heavy feeling in his gut, like an anvil attached with a rope to his waist, forcing him to stop and just sit down here on the sidewalk. He won’t be able to keep walking like this, and the distance between them seems to stretch for kilometers, so he does the only thing that will inevitably catch the blonds attention before giving up becomes the only option:
“Edward!”
In a whip of golden hair, the man turns to him with a wary frown on his face. Roy realizes with an impending sense of doom that now there is no way out of this, not anymore — he ran all the way here and screamed Ed’s name in the middle of a street, there is no way the blond could let him off the hook. His feet move on their own accord, forcing Roy through each step even although his mind keeps chanting stop turn back this is a trap trap trap— Ed is walking in his direction too and they end up meeting way faster than Roy would like. He tilts his head to the side, a single string of blond poking his cheek, and raises his eyebrows in a silent question Roy has no idea how to answer.
He doesn’t seem to have been crying, but that is nothing close to a reassurance; in fact, this is the most calm he has seen Edward in quite a while, and that says enough in Roy’s opinion. Hence, the growing anxiety over their mutual silence leaves Roy with an intense need to apologize. Well, hello, good evening, I’m really sorry there is this invisible rope tying us together even though neither of us had been planning it, or something along those lines.
“Full— Edward, I—”
Roy cannot finish a sentence he couldn’t even come up with. He lays his hand in front of him so Ed can read the odd term of endearment on the back.
With a taste of guilt on his tongue, he must admit he expected more of Edward — lashing out, burning embarrassment, wry laughter, more — but after the entirety of this night, he should already have realized predicting Ed is way harder than it seems. The blond’s eyes widen for a nanosecond, then he looks more sad than surprised. His expression hits Roy like a punch to the guts, he barely stops himself from wincing and doubling over, but there are many things Roy regrets more than being honest with both of them.
Edward extends his hand as well, their fingers brushing for a moment before Roy has time to read the lone word on the flesh:
b r i l l i a n t
Roy can’t bring himself to stop looking.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
It’s a strange picture, the one they make. Their hands contrast on size and tan and the nature of what is written on their skin. Conflicting — his word is more of a curse than a loving language, yet it fills Roy with a warmth that bubbles from his chest all the way up to his lips and forms a smile. He is not happy, not yet, but it has been a long time since he has been this close to it.
“I’m sorry I’m compelling you to tell me now.”
They don’t move, which makes their whole scene even more pathetic. Edward snorts. “You’re not compelling anyone, idiot.”
Unfortunately, the word idiot does not appears besides bastard — at the same time, Roy is objectively grateful for it.
“I’m kinda glad actually,” Ed shrugs, “I really thought you knew all along, but just… didn’t want me.”
Roy's breath hitches in surprise and he stands confused for a few seconds before lacing their fingers together with an unexpected amount of strength. “That’s— no, I am the one who should be saying that, Edward. You are—”
“Please, don’t…”
“—so much more than I could ever deserve. Beautiful, clever, strong, loyal, diligent, passionate…”
The words are being drawn over the skin of Ed’s hand and Roy observes mesmerized as the lines twist and curve. An intense blush spreads over the blond’s cheeks.
“God, you’re a fuckin’ sap,” he groans, rolling his eyes, “quit your self-deprecating bullshit already.”
“I’m not self-deprecating...”
“You just said I’m more than you deserve!” Ed takes a step closer, never letting go of the raven-haired man. “Don’t say that, you know it’s not true, I’m— you’re idealizing me. You’re just…”
He waves his automail in a vague gesture that has Roy frowning in confusion. Sighing, he arches a brow at Roy and bites his lip anxiously.
“Are you really gonna make me say it?”
“I don’t understand what you—”
“Yes, you are. Fuck you, honestly.” Edward pulls their hands, angling them so Roy can see the back of his own, and his cheeks redden even more. “Okay, asshole, so the truth is I think you’re...
s m a r t
p e r s i s t e n t
h a n d s o m e
c o n s i d e r a t e
r e l i a b l e
“...a good person. You’re way more than I could ask for, and I know it must suck to be stuck with me, I’m not really—”
Roy is emotionally incapable of letting him finish, so he squeezes Ed’s fingers and blurts out in a sudden wave of bravery:
“I have been in love with you for years now.”
Admitting it takes a weight off his shoulders he hasn’t known he had been carrying — what felt like a silent crime he could only confess to the four walls of his bedroom, is now just a cluster of words floating between them like soap bubbles. He is fully aware of the power he has surrendered to the man in front of him, and his insides are fizzling with both fear and a pleasant warmth he can’t recall feeling before.
“God, Mustang,” he breathes out, “how the hell do you always know what to say?”
Edward lunges forward, detangling his fingers from Roy’s and tugging him down by the lapels. Truth is, Roy has imagined it so many times, dreamed about it so many times, that this kiss doesn’t feel like a first — and that is okay, more than okay actually. It fills him with an indescribable sense of belonging. They match like this, with Ed’s hands to the sides of his neck — cold and warm, cold and warm — and Roy’s curling around his waist, feeling the precious heat seeping through the wool of his jacket.
It’s a slow kiss, shorter than anyone would have wished it to be, and when Ed pulls away, it feels like his soul is being dragged out of his body alongside, his lone electron gravitating towards the man. In a sudden spur of faith, he understands he doesn’t mind sharing it. Even if it burns him, corrodes him, blinds him, over and over again — Edward is Fluorine and Roy is a mere molecule of Hydrogen, it was bound to happen since the beginning. Their compound is destructive in the best scenario, and Roy doesn’t want to think about what it could do to him in the worst. Especially because now it seems it couldn’t be any better.
The blond doesn’t slip out of his grasp, however; he tilts his head to the side rests his cheek on Roy’s shoulder, breath running slow and warm over the skin of his neck. Roy’s arms slide around Ed’s waist, and it’s with a type of satisfaction that would certainly doom him that Roy realizes Edward is small enough to fit neatly between the tight circle. Sighing, he presses the side of his face to the silky strands of hair and basks in the relief — of being held instead of pushed away, of being hugged in a way he hasn’t been for years now.
“This is…” Ed starts, but never finishes.
And Roy gets the feeling even if he too doesn’t know the right word.
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freedom-of-fanfic · 6 years
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Many do not come from a genuine place of being anti against one particular ship. Trust me when I say the ship they love is just as problematic as the one they hate. It’s called jealousy, immaturity and being bored with a side of getting off on attacking others.
oh, trust me - I know anti-shippers have never met a double standard they didn’t like. I’ve talked at length, over and over, about how the ship that gets derided as problematic based on the Fandom Anti Trinity of Evil (Pedophilia, Incest, and Abuse) is nigh-arbitrary, decided after anti-shippers have collectively settled on their preferred ship(s) and have time to figure out what’s wrong with everything they don’t like. After all, with the expansive way that fandom antis define the Trinity of Evil, pretty much any ship can be classified as falling under at least one of them.
when I write about ‘why antis do the thing’, I’m not taking a look at the reality of the situation - which is that their standards for purity vary widely from ship to ship & their efforts to enforce their standards are mostly dependent on what kind of emotional/social/etc gains can be gotten out of enforcement. Because while I’m sure that some fandom antis are absolutely aware of their own hypocrisy … most of them honest-to-god have no idea that they’re so two-faced. They genuinely think they’re internally consistent and gloss over the evidence that they’re not.
When i ask why antis do what they do, it’s me trying to understand their internal world. 
What lets them maintain the fiction that they are logical and fair-minded? What mental flowchart do they follow? what internal justifications do they maintain for the inconsistencies they can’t hide from themselves?
simply speaking: Making an effort to understand the thought processes of fandom anti-shippers makes them less frustrating for me. But this approach doesn’t work for everyone.
“It’s called jealousy, immaturity and being bored with a side of getting off on attacking others.” 
I get you. you’re not the first person to tell me that actually, anti-shipping is very simplistically and obviously motivated, and all the posts on this blog talking at length about how and why antis do what they do seem like a waste of time.
and hey: I have little doubt that jealousy, boredom, and the pathology of the empathy-deficient, immature mind* all play a role in this. tearing down popular people out of envy has always been a motivator for cruelty, and every year anti-shipping activity spikes during the northern hemisphere’s summer and falls again in autumn. Obviously, a lot of antis are still in school in some capacity.
and yet, I can’t see it as quite so simple.
it’s too controlling.
this isn’t just bored teens looking to pick a fight: it’s steady, sometimes fanatical, devotion to the cause of Cleaning Fandom Up. It’s a two-sided coin: a sense of justification and superiority when they enforce the rules on others … and fear of what will happen if they don’t enforce them. 
and the people who fall ass-backwards into this … wanting to be controlled.
It’s antis warning each other when they reblog from someone who is not among the anointed and the warned anti rushing to clean up without hesitation or further investigation (’omg ew thx for warning me #deleted! #ugh #pedophilia apologists dni’). It’s adolescents writing in to popular anti-shipper blogs and asking if it’s okay to ship a ship. It’s the popular anti-shipper blog mods saying ‘cut off anybody who disagrees with us. Cut off everyone older than you.They’re vile, evil, and want to hurt you’ - while simultaneously rewarding those who dig up proof of ‘problematic behavior’ by their enemies. While simultaneously being older than many of their followers themselves.
It’s the fact that so many anti-shippers simply parrot each other, and respond with a flounce or intense, personal fury when others contradict them - like you invalidated their very being, not just their arguments. It’s the widespread lack of interest in engaging with any counterpoint longer than a sentence. Its their absolute conviction that they are right and you are wrong. It’s their utter lack of interest in figuring out why they are so right and you so wrong on their own - a lack of desire to do anything that involves expanding their horizons beyond their little anti-shipper yard.
and fandom antis aren’t the only young people I see this kind of behavior in. many shippers just parrot what they’ve been told, or echo some part of anti-shipper rhetoric (’ship whatever you want - except if [x]’ is their rallying point.) Many fandom adolescents agree that we need rules, boundaries, people who tell us what’s okay to do or not do; they just disagree on what those rules should be.
It’s left-wing baby’s first authoritarianism, is what it is.
and the reason it’s worth detangling is because if we don’t starve and fight off the social and mental processes that lead us to yearn for a strong despot leader that we can rally behind, crushing all our political opponents before us, all we can hope for is a population that elects more world leaders like Trump - with politics more or less liberal than his, but inevitably controlling and always deadly.
tl;dr: anti-shipping is petty, sure. but it’s training - or continuing the training - of young people in submitting unthinkingly to authorities, avoiding critical thinking, and tearing down or destroying anyone to whom they consider themselves inherently superior (while feeling justified in doing so).
it’s hard for me to shut up about that.
EDIT: addendum post! (tl;dr version: “maybe ‘wanting to be controlled’ isn’t quite the right phrase. But ‘scared to make their own decisions without approval from the closest authority in their life’? yeah - a lot of fandom youth seem to be pretty into that these days.” )
(*adolescent brains are unusually preoccupied with themselves and how they ‘fit in’ socially; at the same time, they haven’t outgrown the childlike self-centered worldview that makes it hard for them to understand the thoughts and behavior of others apart from the effect it has on themselves. That’s why they’re particularly vulnerable to any school of thought that says ‘if it hurts, bothers, or otherwise inconveniences you, it’s actually evil and you’re within your rights to destroy it.’ (There’s a reason high school is a particularly hellish social experience for many people.))
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theonyxpath · 4 years
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Now available: the Æon Æxpansion for Trinity Continuum: Æon! Now in PDF and print from DriveThruRPG.
New Equipment, New Threats, and New Heroes! 
The Æon Æxpansion expands the setting of Trinity Continuum: Æon by adding wondrous new technologies, two new types of playable characters, and a variety of terrifying new opponents. 
The Æon Æxpansion requires both Trinity Continuum: Æon and the Trinity Continuum Core Rulebook to play. Inside, you will find:
Information about new noetic biotech, hardtech cyberware, military weapons, and other technologies of the early 22nd century
Rules for creating and using the large and deadly battlesuits known as VARGs (Vacuum Assault and Reconnaissance Gear)
Rules for creating and playing psiad and superior characters within the Trinity Continuum
Rules for playing psions in the modern-day setting of the Trinity Continuum Core Rulebook
New and deadly Aberrants and insidious Aberrant cults for characters to battle
Also available: the Trinity Continuum: Æon Storyguide Screen and Storyguide Booklet! Now available from IPR in print, and on DriveThruRPG in PDF! We also had a bunch at Studio 2, but it’s completely sold out already (THANK YOU!) so we’re looking into options.
The Stars Await!
Humanity has begun settling on planets circling other suns. Teleporters like myself and the new Leviathan jump ships can take anyone across the galaxy in a few hours, so the stars are at last within our reach. However, we have found dangers as well as wonders out there, and only by working together can we overcome them and take our place on the galactic stage. 
– Bolade Atwan, Proxy of Upeo wa Macho, November 2122 
The Trinity Continuum: Æon Reference Screen and Document contains all the charts and important info a Storyguide could need.
Our friends over at Modiphius have physical copies of the Fall of London for Vampire 5th Edition available for preorder. If you preorder now, you get a copy of the PDF immediately!
Sales
As part of DriveThruRPG’s Teach Your Kids to Game sale, Realms of Pugmire products are on sale! That includes Pugmire, Monarchies of Mau, the Fetch Quest card game, and Canis Minor community content!
Scarred Lands products for Pathfinder (the Scarred Lands Players Guide and The Wise & The Wicked 2nd Edition) are upwards of 90% off from Indie Press Revolution! Both products are an incredible $5 each!
Kickstarter Update
The Kickstarter for Cults of the Blood Gods for Vampire: The Masquerade 5th Edition started yesterday. After hitting its $25,000 funding goal in just 47 minutes (and doubling it in under 10 hours), we currently at $73,289, or 244%. Thanks to our 1147 backers! We hit the following stretch goals:
Trail of Bone and Ashes: The Ties That Bind, a playable Hecata story; Old Wounds, exploring the enmity between the Cappadocians, Lamiae, Giovanni, Samedi, and Harbingers; Open Your Eyes: an examination of Golconda
Blood Gods Backer T-Shirt
Did you miss one of our previous Kickstarters? The following Kickstarted products are still open for preorders via BackerKit:
Scarred Lands: Creature Collection 5e
They Came from Beneath the Sea!: They Came from Beneath the Sea! rulebook
Trinity Continuum: Trinity Continuum: Aberrant
Dystopia Rising: Evolution: Dystopia Rising: Evolution rulebook
Realms of Pugmire: Pirates of Pugmire
Exalted: Lunars: Fangs at the Gate
Chronicles of Darkness: Chronicles of Darkness: Dark Eras 2
Chronicles of Darkness: The Contagion Chronicle
Geist: The Sin-Eaters: Geist: The Sin-Eaters 2nd Edition
Community Spotlight
The following community-created content for Scarred Lands has been added to the Slarecian Vault in the last week:
Your product could be here! Have you considered creating your own to sell?
The following community-created content for Realms of Pugmire has been added to Canis Minor in the last week:
Your product could be here! Have you considered creating your own to sell?
The Storypath Nexus is now open! So far Scion content has been unlocked. The following community-created content for Scion has been added to the Storypath Nexus in the last week:
Your product could be here! Have you considered creating your own to sell?
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orokinarchives · 5 years
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A Favour for Darvo
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(A Favour for Darvo banner)
27 November 2013 – 29 November 2013
Prelude
In September, Darvo issued a series of day-long Darvo Deals. At the time, Darvo was not a constant fixture to the Tenno, as the Relays where he sets up shop had not been built yet. Accordingly, Darvo Deals tended to be notable and rare.
19 September:
Hey, Tenno – you interested in a deal? I've got a few you can't refuse. I have recently come into possession of some valuable wares, fit for Tenno. Certain 'unfriendly individuals' would dearly like to have it back, so I must liberate stock quickly. I believe we can both benefit from my predicament.
Today I can offer you a Stealth Pack at 25% less than my competitors – the best gear for eliminating your enemies silently. It includes the PARIS compound hunting bow, lethal KUNAI throwing daggers and the deadly multi-bladed GLAIVE.
I will have more items available in the coming days. Be sure to check back often; I can only offer them for a limited time.
—Darvo
20 September:
Tenno… if you missed my deal yesterday, don't worry about it. Here's a new one that may pique your interest. Want to enter the most sought-after place this side of the solar system? Here's your chance.
I have an abundance of Void Keys I need to unload fast, so they're 25% less than what my competitors offer. Five Void Keys – including one guaranteed Rare Key – will grant you access to secret missions outside the realms of normal space. Here you'll be able to run missions and find the rarest, most amazing materials and blueprints known to Tenno.
I can't hold on to this valuable cargo for long, so this deal is only available for a limited time. Chop, chop, Tenno.
—Darvo
21 September:
So, I have a situation where I have access to a large stock of warframes. Don't worry, totally legitimate sources.
I've heard my competitors are planning on offering a new Ultimate Warframe pack. I'm willing to offer you this pack before they even release it AND at a 25% discount from their proposed price. How about Mag, Nova, Frost, Rhino, Trinity, Ember, Ash, Excalibur, Banshee, Loki, Saryn, Nyx, Volt and Vauban? Sound good? Fourteen warframes in all. This should surely keep you fighting for some time.
My competitors are starting to catch on to my trade business and don't appreciate my deals as much as you do. So get this deal in the Market before it's too late.
—Darvo
25 September:
I have a very rare opportunity for you Tenno. Perhaps you have heard of Dread, Despair and Hate? You know, the signature stealth weapons of a certain elusive assassin? An assassin whose attentions may now be turned my way. My competitors I can handle, but this guy… this guy is serious. I would rather not find out how effective these weapons are first-hand.
You can have the pack at 25% off. I really need to get rid of this stock. Then I need to do my own disappearing act and put Darvo's Deals on hiatus. You understand, right?
It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Tenno. See you when I see you, if I see you.
—Darvo
After this latest Darvo Deal, where he sold the Stalker's weaponry, Darvo disappeared for some time, briefly surfacing a couple weeks later.
15 November:
Vaults are good hiding spots. They're hard to find and even harder to get into. Believe me, I know – it's the reason I still have all my fingers.
Tenno, what if I told you I've been able to collect a wide assortment of vault keys? Dangerous vaults, too hairy for a simple merchant like myself. But someone of your talents? You might appreciate what's inside.
See… I'm reopening my business, but before I can show my face again, I need to pay off some old debts. You understand, right? You won't find my Vault Pack anywhere else, and the price is crazy low. What do you say, for old times' sake?
—Darvo
Alert
On Wednesday (27 November 2013), the alert became available and was present for two days. The Tenno received an inbox message from Darvo.
Inbox message: Just a Small Favour?
My friends,
I have a small favour to ask of you. No, no, favour is the wrong word. You don't get paid for favours, but for this I can pay you. Not in advance, of course, but when you are done there will be plenty to go around. Hell, once this is done, I'll be able to offer you my deals again.
Let me get to the point. There's a ship. A ship I own but am not currently in possession of. All you need to do is sneak onto this ship and take care of something for me. Nothing major. I know you can handle the work. I'll explain when you're on board.
What do you say, will you help your old friend Darvo out?
Oh and by the way, I'd appreciate it if you keep this between you and me. There is no reason for the Lotus to know about this little arrangement.
—Darvo
Mission
The alert was a Mobile Defence mission on Janus, Saturn, using the Corpus Ship tileset, with normal Corpus enemies. There were three Mobile Defence terminals. Unlike most missions, Darvo himself serves as the mission control, instead of Ordis or the Lotus.
Darvo: "Here we go. Are you ready? I'm ready. Take that datamass and drop it into the system. I'll be able to hack into the ship remotely once you do. Should be easy. You'll find what I need in no time."
Darvo: "Just so you know, I'm a bit new to this whole guide thing, so it's not going to be like the Lotus. Don't worry; everything will be just fine."
(when nearing the first terminal) Darvo: "I think you're near a terminal. Yes, yes you are. Drop me in and I'll get to work."
Darvo: "You're close; drop me in."
(halfway through the first hack) Darvo: "Just making a few more adjustments. Nothing strange going on down there? Just Corpus defences? Nothing… else?"
(after hacking the first terminal) Darvo: "That's it. Hmm… I didn't find what I needed. Go to the next terminal. It should be there. I think."
(halfway through the second hack) Darvo: "Did you hear something strange? No? Okay, I'll keep going. Nearly done."
(after hacking the second terminal) Darvo: "I'm really sorry about this, Tenno, but you need to go to the third terminal. I just can't seem to find what I'm looking for here."
(when nearing the third terminal) Darvo: "Here we are. The last one. I'm going to try one more thing to see if I can't lure… I mean, find… the target."
Halfway through defending the last terminal, the Stalker appeared. The Tenno had to defeat the Stalker while still protecting the terminal.
(when the Stalker appears) Darvo: "There you are. Thought you could hunt me? Well, look who I brought: the Tenno."
(upon the Stalker being defeated) Darvo: "You did it! You took care of my problem. That freak's been tailing me for months. That's a load off my back. I'm so relieved."
After that the mission proceeded as usual towards extraction, and the Tenno was rewarded with a built Forma. Once the mission was completed, it could not be run again.
Aftermath
After the alert was completed, the Tenno received an inbox message from Darvo informing them of a new deal in the Market.
Inbox message: Darvo's Deals Are Back!
Friends!
You did it, you got that freak off my back. Well, some of you did and some of you didn't quite make it, but I won't hold that against any of you. What matters is I can now come out of hiding, and that means more deals for everyone.
To celebrate this occasion, I have put together the Super Charge Pack. It is everything you need to take your warframe to the next level, including boosters, an Orokin Reactor and Catalyst, Forma, and even extra warframe and weapon slots. Because there is no longer a price on my head, you all get half price on this deal. That's right, 50% off this amazing pack.
I'm not done yet, either. Keep an eye out for more deals over the next couple of days.
—Darvo
The next day, Darvo had another deal in the Market.
Inbox message: Let Me Make It Up to You
Friends,
I am hearing a very troubling rumour. Apparently, some of you feel that I took advantage of the Tenno. That I should have warned you I was luring a very dangerous assassin to your location so that you could kill him for me. But, friends, had I warned you, you may not have helped, and where would that leave me? You want me back in business, don't you?
Look, let me make it up to you. Courtesy of your hard work, I have a very special bundle for you. A Nekros warframe, the Carrier sentinel, a Soma rifle, and the ever-deadly Ether Reaper. All at half the usual market prices. Come on, Tenno, tell me a deal like that isn't worth a little risk?
—Darvo
After that, there was yet another deal in the Market.
Inbox message: One More Deal
Tenno,
I have one more deal for you. What do you think of a pack containing the Dread bow, Despair throwing blades and a Hate scythe? The Tenno who helped me out will know firsthand just how destructive these weapons can be. Last time I offered this pack, I got myself into a little bit of hot water. Now, thanks to your efforts, the pressure is off, and this time I can offer this deal at half price.
As for me, I am running out of stock, but I have a hot tip on some new product. Don't worry though, Tenno, I have learned my lesson. Everything will be aboveboard from now on. Trust me.
So long for now, Darvo
[Navigation: Hub → Events → Special Alerts → A Favour for Darvo]
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biggoonie · 5 years
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Azrael #1 by Jock
AZRAEL #1 Written by Fabian Nicieza Art by Ramon Bachs Cover by Jock Variant cover by Frazer Irving Following the events of “The Eighth Deadly Sin” in BATMAN ANNUAL #27 and DETECTIVE COMICS ANNUAL #11, the new monthly series starring Death’s Dark Knight begins! Michael Lane is a man in search of redemption, but does serving the Order of Purity as God’s Angel of Justice bring him closer to achieving his goal – or simply send him further down a road paved with good intentions? When a hired killer comes to Gotham City seeking revenge for crimes committed decades in the past, Azrael faces an impossible conflict: What if God’s justice forces the hero to claim one of God’s servants? From writer Fabian Nicieza (SUPERMAN, TRINITY) and artist Ramon Bachs (RED ROBIN)! Retailers please note: This issue will ship with two covers. For every 25 copies of the Standard Edition (with a cover by Jock), retailers may order one copy of the Variant Edition (with a cover by Frazer Irving). Please see the Previews Order Form for more information. On sale October 21 • 32 pg, FC, $2.99 US
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aion-rsa · 2 years
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The Matrix Resurrections Finally Unveils the New Niobe
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The Matrix Resurrections revives Neo and Trinity from one more adventure inside the simulation. Keanu Reeves and Carrie-Anne Moss reprise the roles that made them sci-fi legends at the turn of the century, and they’re bringing a few other franchise veterans with them. Among the other returners are Daniel Bernhardt as Agent Johnson, Lambert Wilson as an older and disheveled Merovingian, and Jada Pinkett Smith as Niobe.
We’ve already seen our first glimpse at the Merovingian, who’s clearly fallen on hard times since he last tormented our heroes during a deadly bondage rave inside the Matrix, and now a new trailer finally shows Smith back as Niobe. It’s not in the way you think, though.
“It’s so easy to forget how much noise the Matrix pumps into your head. Something else makes the same kind of noise: war,” a much older Niobe tells a reawakened Neo in the video. Then the bullets start flying.
This first look at Niobe is surprising, to say the least, and does have major implications for when this sequel takes place. While some fans have long theorized that this movie would be some kind of prequel or take place in a different version of the Matrix altogether, it’s clear that this a direct follow-up to the same timeline, but where many more decades have passed on Zion since Neo saved humanity in Revolutions. If 50 years have passed since the end of the trilogy, then this grayer Niobe would certainly look her age. But why haven’t the rest of the characters aged at the same pace?
Not only is their a much younger Morpheus running around, but Neo and Trinity have aged at a slower pace than Niobe’s decades too — we see that real-world Neo is the same age as his residual self image in the simulation. Trinity too looks the same in the pod as she does in the Matrix. Is this a result of the Machine experiments that have brought their real-world bodies back to life? Either the Machines kept these two on ice until the time was right to plug them back in, they somehow de-aged them after bringing them back to life, or genetically engineered clone bodies that look only slightly older than their predecessors. Whatever the case, Resurrections seems to be playing fast and loose with the passage of time.
cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });
Besides her age, the new trailer doesn’t reveal much about Niobe’s role in the movie. Is she still a ship captain adventuring with Ghost (Anthony Wong) and Sparks (Lachy Hulme) on a rebuilt Logos? Or has she retired. It almost looks like she’s wearing the cozy attire of a Zion councillor, one of the elders that make up the governing body of the last human city.
We’ll find out just what’s going on with Niobe, and how deep the rabbit hole really goes, when The Matrix Resurrections hits theaters and HBO Max on Dec. 22.
The post The Matrix Resurrections Finally Unveils the New Niobe appeared first on Den of Geek.
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